


Duty Calls

by Zoop (zoop526)



Series: Orsimer Dovahkiin [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Marking, Profanity, Racism, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:25:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 41,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoop526/pseuds/Zoop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia swears fealty to the new Thane of Whiterun, who is less than a Nord in every way. Such a waste that he's also Dragonborn, and doesn't even want to BE Dragonborn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dragonborn Comes

It seemed that Lydia had only just closed her eyes when she was roughly woken by Proventus Avenicci.

"What do you want, old man?" she grumbled.

"Your presence is required by the Jarl," the balding man said stiffly. He preferred spending all his time in Dragonsreach, attending to Jarl Balgruuf. The barracks were beneath him.

"I have only just returned from Rorikstead," Lydia groaned as she sat up. "I did not think the Jarl would mind if I caught up on my rest before returning to my duties."

"He would not, under normal circumstances," the steward said, turning his back on the warrior as she stood in her underthings. The common soldiery were certainly crude and mannerless, he thought. "You happen to be the highest ranked who is present at the moment. All the others are otherwise engaged."

"So I'm the 'lucky' one, am I?" she snorted, pulling her armor back on.

"That depends on your definition of luck," Proventus smirked. "An...interesting event has occurred in your absence. It would appear that dragons have returned."

"Dragons?" Lydia scoffed. "Children's tales. Someone has been at the mead."

"Nay," he asserted, glancing over his shoulder. Happily, she was sufficiently covered. Turning, he continued. "The town of Helgen was recently razed. A few survivors delivered news of the attack."

"Must have been in their cups," she insisted. "There are no dragons in Skyrim."

"I'm sure the families of those who fell at the watchtower yesterday will be greatly relieved by your confidence," Proventus sneered.

Lydia froze and stared at the man. "What happened?"

"It would seem that a children's tale fell upon the western watchtower and nearly destroyed it. Five guards were burned to a crisp before it was slain."

Blinking, the Nord woman almost lost her composure. How could this be?

"And that is not even the most astonishing news," the steward continued, motioning her to follow him. She did so, as if in a trance. "It would seem that one of the survivors of Helgen – a rebel prisoner spared the chopping block by the dragon's attack there, so they say – accompanied Irileth to the watchtower, and now it seems he is Dragonborn, or somesuch nonsense."

Lydia stopped in her tracks, staring at the Imperial in shock. This was too much. It would seem that more than one tale was coming to life. "The Dragonborn are not 'nonsense,'" she snarled.

"It does not matter whether his claim is valid or not," Proventus said dismissively. "Jarl Balgruuf believes him, the men who witnessed this... strange event believe him, so he is Dragonborn." He opened the barracks door and strode out into the crisp evening air. "And that is where you come in."

"What have I to do with the Dragonborn?" she asked.

"The Jarl has named him Thane of Whiterun for his service," the man said. "He bade me fetch someone to serve as housecarl to the new Thane." Glancing over his shoulder with a smirk, he said, "Congratulations."

"As long as he is not some pompous ass of an Imperial," she snapped. Proventus did not even bat an eye at her insult.

"I would not dare spoil the surprise," he replied with relish.

Not wanting to seem too curious, Lydia forced herself to follow in silence as they ascended the steps to Dragonsreach. Already, there seemed to be a crowd of people heading in the same direction, many in festive attire.

"What goes on?" she asked the steward.

"There is a celebration, of course," he replied. "One does not slay a dragon every day. Nor is one called to High Hrothgar on the wind, it would seem."

Snorting indelicately, she found herself checking buckles and straightening mail, wondering if she'd thoroughly cleaned her armor recently enough to pass at least cursory inspection. She hadn't considered the possibility that the Hold's upper classes would be rubbing elbows with the common rabble. To her annoyance, the Imperial seemed amused by her discomfiture.

Once inside Dragonsreach, Lydia was again awed by its splendor. It was always a welcome sight to behold upon returning to her home, and tonight was no different. She barely acknowledged the many Nords and other folk crowding the front hall. The intricately carved support beams, the tapestries, the protective stone walls, the comforting warmth of a place that spoke so much to heart...

"Ah, Lydia. An excellent choice, Avenicci."

The woman jerked out of her reverie at the sound of the Jarl's voice, and hastily saluted.

"I am afraid there was not much to choose from, my lord. All your men have assignments that cannot be altered on such short notice. Lydia has recently returned from Rorikstead, having presumably settled that little matter of banditry. I do believe she is at loose ends at the moment."

"Thank you, Avenicci," the Jarl said with no little annoyance at his steward. "Lydia, it is my wish that you be housecarl to the Dragonborn. What say you?"

"You honor me, my Jarl," she said humbly, bowing. "I shall not fail you."

"Very good. Thane Ashtulagal," he said, turning and beckoning the Dragonborn forward. Lydia followed the Jarl's gesture with her eyes, then bristled.

This was no invading Imperial, nor a scheming elf. It was a filthy swit of an Orc. His yellow eyes were like twin piss-pools in his face. His lips parted in a permanent scowl by the large, brutish lower tusks that jutted out over his upper teeth. The warpaint he still bore looked like someone had stuck their hand in white chalk and slapped him across the face. His thick, black hair was pulled into a ragged tail at the back of his head. And his armor... a dirty, mismatched, battered mix of iron and steel.

Her distaste must have been apparent, for his scowl seemed to deepen as he returned her stare. The Jarl cleared his throat and leveled an expectant, and slightly admonishing, glare in her direction.

"Thane...," she began, then faltered as a shuddering grimace rippled across her face, "Ashtulagal. My...liegelord. I pledge my sword to your service." Sinking to one knee, she lowered her gaze and presented her sword.

"You take her sword, if she is satisfactory," the Jarl prompted when the Orc just stood there stupidly.

"She is," the new Thane said simply, his voice deep, almost like the thrum of a large drum. Taking her sword, he held it awkwardly for a moment, then gave it back into her hands. She tried hard not to sneer at his confusion, she really did. She wasn't particularly successful, if his look of disgust was any judge. But then, maybe he looked like that all the time. He was an Orsimer, after all.

The evening's charms were soured by the Orc's brutally inept presence, and Lydia found her mind wandering as she dutifully followed him about. Jarl Balgruuf led him around like a trained dog, introducing him to all the most important people, and he chafed visibly under their haughty scrutiny. The new housecarl sneered; he can't have been what they expected either, and now they were clearly uncomfortable in their efforts to treat him with courtesy under the watchful eye of the Jarl, when they likely wanted to cast him out of the city like the bit of filth he was.

 _Dragonborn, my ass_ , she thought. It was embarrassing to be standing on the same side as that Imperial fool, Proventus, on any subject.

Eventually, the Jarl set the creature loose, allowing him to mingle with the aristocracy on his own. Lydia looked about, hoping none of the other guards would see the abysmal duty she'd been assigned. When she turned her annoyed attention back to the Thane, he was gone.

Sighing deeply, she went in search of the Orc. It shouldn't be too hard to spot him, she thought. After all, there weren't that many Orsimer roaming freely about Skyrim these days, at least not outside the protective walls of their strongholds. Certainly, none called Whiterun Hold their home. She wouldn't care what became of him if she wasn't his sworn housecarl. That duty required a certain amount of giving-a-damn-about-his-welfare.

A quick circuit around the hall did not flush the Orc out of hiding, so Lydia began asking around. Eventually, she found a guard sober enough to have remembered seeing the Orc slip out a side door into the gardens. Exasperated, she stomped after him.

There were people milling about in the gardens as well, for it was a lovely night. The moon was full and hanging low in the sky. If the Thane was trying to get away from the crowds, he can't have stayed here. Now she was getting annoyed. He may be a worthless Orc, but the position of housecarl was a tremendous honor. She had pledged her life to his protection, something she could scarcely do if he was wandering around she knew not where.

Taking the path down to the stairs, she headed down, occasionally asking a tittering woman or guffawing man the whereabouts of her quarry. Their unsteady hands directed her down into the village, and eventually to the Bannered Mare. He couldn't have taken himself farther from Dragonsreach if he tried, without leaving Whiterun altogether.

The tavern was not so crowded as it usually was, perhaps due to the competition of the party in the Cloud District. Lydia maneuvered around the patrons, scanning faces, until finally she found him, seated in a dark corner nursing a mug of ale.

"You are a difficult... person to track down," she said stiffly as she sat in the chair opposite him at the small table.

"I did not wish to be found," he snarled. "Not by anyone." His tone clearly included her in the 'anyone.'

"I did not ask to be your housecarl, and you did not ask to be Thane," she snapped. "We must make the best of it. I am sworn to your service, and by the Nine, I will serve."

He fixed her with an angry glare. "I do not need your service. I do not _want_ your service. I do not want... _any_ of this." He waved his hand absently. "I release you. Go back to your Jarl. Leave me in peace."

"That I cannot do," she said, shaking her head. "Once given, the title of Thane cannot be discarded, nor can the housecarl that goes with it. We are stuck."

He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "They say I must go to the Greybeards. Climb the millions of steps or somesuch."

"Seven thousand," she corrected through clenched teeth.

"Millions or thousands, what difference does it make?" he snapped harshly. His eyes flashed in the dim light. "I do not want to go."

"Why not?" she demanded. "It is an honor to be called by the Greybeards. You _must_ go, if you are truly Dragonborn."

"I did not ask for _that_ either," he hissed. "I wish only freedom. I thought I had it after Helgen. Deliver news of the dragon and go my way." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, eyes fixed on the contents of his mug.

"Stop being a child," she snapped. "A great honor has been bestowed upon you. Do make an effort to be worthy of it. Difficult as that may be for someone like you."

He glared at her over the rim of the mug. A growl rumbled deep in his chest.

"Ah, how delightful," Lydia smirked, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms over her chest. "You even _sound_ like a beast."

Ashtulagal quickly drained his mug, slammed it down on the table, and stood. Leaning over her, one hand on the table and the other pointing a thick finger in her face, he snarled, "Mind your tongue, bitch. Follow me, and the beast will bite." Turning on his heel, he stomped toward the door.

Lydia rolled her eyes, undaunted by the new Thane's threat. She'd sworn an oath. Honor may be a foreign concept to the Orsimer, but to her, it was sacred, even if distasteful at the moment. She sauntered determinedly after him.


	2. Running Away from Whiterun

He couldn't seem to shake off the housecarl, no matter where he went, how well he dodged around folk in the market square, or what insults he traded with her. And there were many of those. She clearly despised him for his race, haughtily comparing him to various dumb animals. Until now, Ashtu hadn't been particularly prejudiced against Nords, or any other race for that matter. It seemed that all were equally hostile to the Orsimer, so the Orsimer tended to treat other races with a healthy amount of distrust in equal measure. There was a huge difference between wariness and disdain, however.

Lydia was fair to look upon as well, which only made things worse for the reluctant Thane.

It took the Jarl, several priests, and the pompous Avenicci several days of cajoling, and a loud confrontation in Dragonsreach, to finally convince Ashtulagal to make the trek around the mountains to Ivarstead, and then up to High Hrothgar to meet with the Greybeards. When he finally relented, the satisfied smirk of his housecarl made him grind his teeth.

Still, Ashtu knew he would feel better once he left the walls of Whiterun behind him and struck out on the road once more. He was a wanderer by nature, called to open spaces and adventure as a bird was called to the skies. Though condemned to death in Helgen on the pretense of being a rebel, he'd simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Imperials, he'd long found, didn't care much for righting of wrongs when on their guard in hostile territory. The matter of his race may not have been mentioned, but he knew by the looks he received that even less concern was felt because of it.

One less Orc dirtying up the world.

Grimacing, Ashtu set his mind back to the task at hand. He was fairly certain that, Thane title or no, the tradesman was trying to cheat him. He did not seem to understand that Ashtulagal was not stupid, and could tell the difference between fresh and rancid venison. He was, after all, an accomplished hunter in his own right.

"That is rotted, and is not acceptable," he growled, baring his teeth angrily.

The Bosmer man feigned innocence and replied, passing a look of shared amusement with Lydia over the Orc's shoulder, "Tis not rotted, milord, but _aged_. The flavor of the meat is all the more enhanced by a few days of curing."

"Days?" Ashtu snarled, face contorting with fury. "There are maggots in it!"

"Not so, milord!" the Elf cried. "It is but rice. We pack the meat in rice for curing. Surely you know of this method. The rice then soaks up the juices..."

" _Rice does not squirm_!" the furious orc shouted. Grabbing a fistful of the putrid flesh, he shoved it in the Bosmer's face. "If it is so 'enhanced,' _you_ eat it!"

Only a monumental effort restrained his urge to upend the tradesman's cart and storm away in a fury. They thought him a half-wit, a dullard, brainless. If he let his temper get the better of him, they would add barbaric and uncouth to the list. Assuming those terms weren't already on it.

Clenching his teeth, Ashtu bit back a follow-up retort and lowered his voice. "I will take that meat at the price you set for the spoiled. If you do not agree, I will take my business elsewhere."

The tradesman raised his eyebrows, surprised that the Orc had backed down so quickly. He'd half expected to be calling the guards over for protection from the formidable Thane. On the other hand, if he did so, the title alone would weigh the situation in the Orc's favor. It would not be prudent to call unwanted attention to himself, lest any other of his business dealings come under the watchful eye of the guards. "I believe that is acceptable, milord." He hastily wrapped Ashtu's purchase and handed it over, accepting a palmful of septims in payment.

Having utterly lost what little appetite he had for provisioning, Ashtu stormed away from the market and headed for the smithy. Avenicci's daughter, Adrianne, at least, showed little contempt for him. She had taken his measure after he was named Thane, and should have his new armor crafted by now.

Unlike most of his brethren, Ashtulagal was not a front line fighter. He preferred taking a position far from his enemy, from a place of concealment, for he was raised a hunter like his father before him. He was not worthless in a toe-to-toe fight, but it was outside his comfort zone, and he didn't much like it. However, since Helgen, he had been forced to scrape together armor from any source he came across, which meant a great deal of it was heavy and noisy. Damned difficult to sneak in plate mail.

Of course, he would only be as silent as his travel companion. Lydia had the grace of a mammoth, and was nearly as loud.

"Ah, good, you're here," Adrianne said as the Thane and his housecarl approached. "I've only to put the finishing touches on, and your armor will be finished. Wait here for a few minutes." The woman disappeared into her shop, leaving the two of them outside. Ashtu stared longingly at the gates to freedom yawning nearby. Beyond, he could just make out a stretch of open ground, mountains in the distance, an abandoned fortress not a mile away... He briefly wondered if there might be something interesting in it.

"New armor, eh?" Lydia remarked sarcastically. Ashtulagal's shoulders tensed at the sound of her voice. "Whatever is the matter with what you have?" The Orc slowly turned and leveled a piercing glare at her.

"It is heavy," he snarled.

"You're a big, strong Orc," she said. "It can't be _that_ heavy."

"Heavy and _loud_ ," he clarified. "I do not like wearing heavy armor. I cannot stalk my prey wearing a shield wagon on my back."

"What prey is this, then?" she retorted, folding her arms over her chest. "Imperial soldiers? Stormcloaks? Helpless women? Small children? Invalids?"

"Deer, you unbearable bitch," he growled. "Wolves. Sabre cats. Mammoth, if the need and opportunity arise. I hunt."

"Well, well, well," she murmured, unperturbed by his insult. "An Orsimer that does not roar like an ogre and throw himself upon his enemy's sword at every opportunity. You prefer attacking from behind in the dark as well, I suppose?"

He nearly struck her. Very nearly. Clenching his fists at his sides, he restrained the urge, squeezing his eyes shut on her smirking, self-righteous face. _Let her think what she will_ , he told himself. _I know who I am_.

Or did he? He felt no different, yet somehow the soul of a dragon possessed him, if the Nords could be believed. That they would associate him with what they considered to be an unparalleled honor, while still somehow thinking him unworthy of it, seemed to invite belief. It was unsettling, to learn of such a strange thing, something he had obviously always been and never known. Even more disturbing was having his life mapped out for him by others, the fate of the world thrown upon his shoulders as if he had the power to save it.

He almost regretted the dragon's intervention at Helgen. He would have been spared the laughable situation he was now in, one worthy of Sheogorath himself.

"I do not hunt _people_ ," he said slowly through gritted teeth. He opened his eyes and fixed her with a baleful glare. "And I am no _assassin_."

She raised an eyebrow at the way he spat out the word. Ashtu was spared her no doubt witty retort by Adrianne's reappearance, bearing a full suit of leather armor for his inspection.

"Come into the shop and try it on. I have an anteroom you can use to change."

Even the stiff new leather was easier to move in than the heavy plate, and Ashtu flexed his shoulders in it gratefully. Twisting his torso to loosen the fit, he noticed Lydia behind him in the mirror and froze. Did he see what he thought he saw? No. Couldn't be. She did not just look at his backside and raise her eyebrow in anything resembling admiration. _Now you are definitely being stupid, Ashtu_ , he told himself. Shaking his head quickly, he flexed first one arm and then the other to stretch the leather encasing them, pointedly ignoring the woman.

"How do you like the fit?" Adrianne asked.

"Good," he replied, bringing his arms forward once more to stretch the cuirass across his back. Given a bit of wear, it would serve him well, and he would be able to pass through the underbrush like a shadow once more. Unless Lydia accompanied him, that is. Rolling his eyes and grimacing, he dropped into a squat for a moment, then straightened. He continued working to relax the leather before the full-length mirror, admiring the way it hugged his body's contours. If he were back at home in the Dragontail Mountains, perhaps one or two females would look on him with favor.

Thoughts of home deflated him, and robbed him of any enjoyment in his daydreaming. He made his choice years ago. If he wished a wife, he was resigned to luck and the grace of Malacath in finding an Orsimer woman willing to put up with his wanderings. He'd long since lost hope in either of those miracles.

After settling with Adrianne, Ashtu headed for the front gates, his laden pack merely an afterthought in light of the adventure that awaited him beyond. He tried not to dwell on the destination, or the company forced upon him. She hadn't said anything since leaving the smithy, and he found her unexpected quiescence enjoyable.

It was late afternoon, the sun sinking in the west and drawing the Orsimer's eyes in that direction. At first, he glared at the remains of the western watchtower, where his apparent Dragonborn nature was revealed. Beyond, however, was that abandoned fortress. Squinting thoughtfully, he found his feet beginning to divert westward.

"Where are you going?" Lydia asked, annoyed.

"You are sworn to guard my life," he snarled, "not poke your nose in my business."

"Ivarstead is _that_ way," she retorted, pointing to the east.

"Is it about to fly away on the back of a dragon?"

Startled, she shook her head.

"Then it will be there when I get there." Turning, he began to lope easily toward the fortress in the distance.

"The Jarl said...," she protested, running to catch up.

"I do not give a damn what the Jarl said," Ashtu barked. "If you do not like it, go back to your precious Jarl. I released you days ago. Leave me be."

"Do not speak to me in such a coarse manner," she snapped. "Like it or not, you are Dragonborn, and you were summoned..."

"I do not come crawling when beckoned by anyone!" he roared, stopping in his tracks and whirling. Lydia was so startled by his speed that she ran right into him.

Recovering herself, she squared off, only taking a step back so she was no longer touching him. "There you go again, throwing a tantrum over your poor fortune. Wherever did I stash my handkerchief? I do believe I shall weep for your pitiful plight."

"Bitch," he snarled, stomping off toward the fortress.

"You should really try for something more imaginative," she chided, falling in alongside him. "I shall get bored with that one quickly."

"Cunt," he spat.

Lydia grabbed his arm, spun him toward her, then punched him in the face. "Try again," she snarled through gritted teeth.

She had a good punch, part of his mind pointed out. The other, indignant part, much more vocal at the moment, roared in fury and urged a like response. But he had never struck a woman in his life, on pain of severe punishment by his father, and he wasn't about to start now. Not even _this_ woman.

" _Nord_ ," he snarled, packing as much revulsion into the word as he could muster. Turning once more, he marched angrily off, suppressing the urge to rub his jaw appreciatively.


	3. Diversionary Tactics

Ashtulagal dropped to a crouch in the underbrush when they were within fifty yards of the walls. There were figures moving along the old fortress's battlements.

"What could possibly interest you at Fort Greymoor?" Lydia hissed. "It is a haven of bandits. The Jarl has sent us to clear it many times, and it still draws them like flies."

"Never been inside," the orc grunted in an undertone. "That is enough."

Shaking her head, the Nord woman resigned herself to babysitting the wayward child all the way to the Throat of the World. He was quite the imbecile, if he thought the two of them alone could take out a fortress full of miscreants.

"Simpleton," she snarled. "How do you propose we proceed? If we enter through the front, we will be dropped by their archers before we take two steps. See how many there are?"

Without bothering to look at her, his piss-yellow eyes still scanning ahead, he snarled, "There are five on the walls."

"There are at least a dozen, or did they not teach you simple counting in that rat hole country of yours?"

Now he turned his malevolent gaze on her. Maybe he curled his lip; it was hard to tell with the tusks already contorting his mouth. "Five, _Nord_. The rest are target dummies. Did they not teach you the difference between the living and the dead in that shit pile country of _yours_?"

Narrowing her eyes to cover her humiliation, she said, "Even still. A frontal assault..."

"Watch and learn," he snapped. Then he practically slithered through the tall grasses, darting lithely from one bit of cover to the next, creeping closer to the walls. Had her eyes not already been fixed on him, she would have easily lost sight of him. She certainly could hear no rumor of his advance. To an unsuspecting enemy, she fancied they would only hear the whisper of the wind in the grass before he was upon them.

Lydia shook herself. She would never have imagined someone as brawny as the Orc could be so... graceful.

Now she could see what he was up to. There was a tumbled down section of the wall that the current residents made only half-hearted attempts to repair. Ashtulagal slipped up against the wall undetected by the few living souls patrolling the crumbling battlement above. Edging toward the breech, he readied his bow.

She was frankly dumbstruck. The Orc flitted in and out of cover, his bow singing as he brought down one bandit after another. Ashtulagal swept in through the breech and disappeared. The sound of shouting reached Lydia's ears on the breeze, and it suddenly occurred to her that she was supposed to be his housecarl, his protector, his shield. Swearing under her breath, she broke into a run.

It was over before she arrived. The five on the walls, two inside the courtyard, and one up a tower, all dead. In the middle stood the Thane, casually wiping his sword on the hide armor of a deceased bandit. Rising, he shot her a smug look, then trotted to the keep's door.

Ashtulagal leaned against the doorframe for a moment to catch his breath before entering. Lydia joined him, doing her level best to keep him from discovering how impressed she really was.

"If you insist on burdening me," he snarled, "keep your ass back. I will not trouble myself to miss if you are stupid enough to get in my way."

"I will watch your back," she said through clenched teeth. "If you insist on going through with this charade."

"I do," he growled, then eased the door open and slipped inside. Rolling her eyes, Lydia followed.

The keep hadn't changed much since the last time she and her fellow guards had swept through to clean house. The chief difference was the company she was keeping, company which kept shooting hostile looks over its shoulder with nearly every step she took. Finally, he seemed to have reached his breaking point and turned on her. He moved like a snake, and she banged into the wall behind her with an echoing clang as he bumped chests with her.

"Be. Quiet," he hissed. "You sound like a legion of Imperials."

"What would you have me do, strip to nothing?" she snapped back.

A muscle below his left eye twitched, but he said nothing. Turning, he crept forward once more.

The Orc's stealthy, measured approach also impressed the housecarl. He did not run wildly around corners or bellow a warcry when the enemy was engaged. He took care to examine every nook and cranny, collect each coin from the fallen, before moving on. When confronted with a locked door, Lydia sagged and blew out an exasperated breath. Then Ashtulagal grimly removed a handful of lockpicks, dropped to one knee, and delicately manipulated the tumblers. He only broke one before the door swung open.

If it was treasure that attracted the Orsimer's interest, the old fort must have been a sorry disappointment. Lydia could barely contain her amusement as they made their way back to Whiterun to sell off the pile of battered armor and rusty weapons he accumulated, some of which he'd insisted she carry for him. The diversion earned him a fair amount of coin, however, as well as appreciation from the Jarl for sparing his men this month's effort, making Lydia seethe.

"You have had your fun," she pointed out as she followed him back out of the city. "The Greybeards do not like to be kept waiting."

"Will their beards cease to grow until I arrive?" he retorted.

"Of course not, idiot. They have commanded..."

"Then I do not care."

"Why are you even _here_?" she snapped. "You disdain the traditions of my people, yet you insist on strutting about like a prince among men."

Ashtulagal stopped and turned. Though apparently difficult to express himself with such a face, he still seemed to look incredulous. That, at least, must come naturally.

"When did you see me _strut_?" he snarled, baring his teeth more than usual.

In all truth, he was the least pretentious man she'd ever encountered, but that was entirely beside the point.

"Do you think the Greybeards have nothing better to do than wait on you?" she barked. "Surely even _you_ should be curious about what it means to be Dragonborn, how you came by such a blessing, how to use your power..."

"They can tell me these things?" the Orc interrupted, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Startled, Lydia shut her mouth, then smirked. Of course, at the mention of _power_...

"Yes," she snapped. "All that and more. If it would not be _beneath_ you to climb the _seven thousand steps_."

He seemed to consider this new angle for a moment, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Lydia rolled her eyes.

"Where is Ivarstead again?"

"On the eastern slope of the mountain," she replied. "We will need to make our way along the main road that skirts the mountain to the north. Then we can find the path that leads to the settlement."

"How far?"

She shrugged uncertainly. "Four or five days afoot, I expect. Barring any side trips." She gave him a particularly scathing look.

"I cannot guarantee there will be no... side trips," he said evenly. "I do not want this, not any of it. Maybe they can take it back."

That was the last thing she expected to hear from the Orc. She didn't even know how to respond.

Straightening, he spun and hastened down the road. It took Lydia another stunned moment to recover and follow.

They were well past the Battle-born farm when Ashtulagal decided the shadows were a hindrance rather than a help, and he declared it was time to set camp for the night. They were still within sight of the northern watchtower, so there was no need for extreme caution. Ashtulagal set a campfire, then busied himself preparing dinner. He completely ignored Lydia.

She watched him hang a small pot of water over the fire with a collapsible tripod, then turn to a handful of vegetables. He chopped them into fine, relatively even pieces. Then he unwrapped one of the pieces of venison he'd purchased from the swindling tradesman, sniffed it, and began to cut it into strips. All the while, he kept glancing into the pot to see if the water was boiling yet.

She found herself watching his hands. They were like any other man's hands, to be honest. Just greenish gray, as was the rest of his skin. In the flickering firelight, they seemed almost drained of color. He handled the knife deftly, as he had the lockpicks. Once more she was transfixed by his graceful movements, apparently not constrained to matters of stealth but also the simplest chores. After a moment, she realized his hands had stopped. Startled, she looked up at his face.

He was staring at her, perhaps wondering why _she_ was staring at _him_. Lydia swallowed uncomfortably. "I did not realize Orcs ate things other than meat."

Snorting indelicately, he went back to his work. "It is a poor table that only has one fare." He began tossing the vegetables into the pot. "I did not think Nords gave a shit what other folk do, so long as they stay out of Skyrim."

"Are Orcs so different?" she challenged. "Had you not sold out, you might have closed your borders to outsiders as well."

"We did not 'sell out,'" he snarled. "We fought with honor, as we have always done."

"You capitulated," she sneered. "Do not begrudge us our desire to live free of imperial rule."

"Freedom." He shook his head, stirring the simmering pot. "You talk of freedom in the same breath as 'do not anger the Greybeards' and 'bow before the Greybeards' and 'do not keep the fucking Greybeards waiting.'" Pointing the spoon at her, he leaned forward and fixed her with a baleful gaze. "Cyrodiil recognized our worth. They could have enslaved us, treated us like animals, but they did not."

"No, much easier to train you to fight their battles. Let others do their killing for them. And the Greybeards are respected elders, not rulers."

"They are not _my_ elders," he muttered. "My elders never mentioned this taint when they spoke to me."

Startled, Lydia said, "Taint? What do you mean, 'taint'?"

"Jarl Balgruuf said I have a dragon's soul," Ashtulagal growled. "Not Orsimer. I do not know _your_ definition of 'taint,' but that is mine."

"Hmph," she snorted, looking down as she brushed ashes from her leggings, "given how polluted your _mer_ blood is, I assumed you would consider it an improvement."

Her comment was met with a stony silence, and she glanced up to see why he did not return with some witless riposte about _her_ people.

Ashtulagal was shaking, his eyes wide and glaring hard at her. He looked like he was going to explode at any moment. His jaw ground, his face twitched. He didn't even appear to be breathing, as if even _that_ would set him off like a bomb. Lydia felt herself leaning back slightly, afraid of his wrath for the first time.

Slowly rising to his feet, Ashtulagal turned and stomped off, quickly swallowed by the darkness. Lydia hugged herself and stared uncomfortably into the fire, a frown on her face.


	4. Mending a Fence

His fist nearly shattered from the impact with the tree trunk. Grimacing, Ashtulagal healed the break with one of the few spells he'd bothered to learn as a child, then struck the tree again. Healed it again, and struck. Again and again. Tiring of this, he tore a branch off the abused tree and bit down hard, driving his tusks into the bark to stifle his roar of fury.

He wanted to kill her. Rip the tongue from her mouth. Beat her to death with her own severed arm. He had never felt so much anger in his entire life.

It sickened him, the rising bile leaving a sour taste in his mouth. He leaned on one arm against the tree, head bowed. He should never have left his home. There, he was surrounded by his own folk. Few who were not Orsimer settled in the Dragontail Mountain range, so he was spared their prejudices for the better part of his life. The last ten years of wandering had not sufficiently toughened his hide against it, apparently.

Why it should bother him so much coming from _her_ , he didn't want to know.

Deciding he wasn't quite finished with the tree, Ashtu punched the unrelenting trunk once more. This time, the force behind the blow split one of the bones of his forearm, and he doubled over from the agony. His good hand shook as he attempted to heal himself, but it did no good. The spell wasn't powerful enough.

It was too dark now to see much, but he didn't need to see to know the hand that drew the bowstring was paralyzed from the damage to his arm. He began to shake with new outrage, this time directed at himself for losing control.

"Um..."

He whirled at the sound of her hated voice, but any scathing remark he may have readied for launch died in his throat when he saw the look on her face.

Recovering himself, he snarled, "What do you want now?"

"I... wanted to... apologize," she said meekly.

The absurdity of her statement hit him hard, and he laughed harshly in her face. "Apologize? You call me 'polluted' and you want forgiveness? What will you give me when you turn a blind eye and betray your vow as housecarl because you believe me unworthy?"

Lydia flared up angrily. "I would _never_ betray my vow! It is a sacred honor to be so sworn."

"What assurance do I have that you will _not_?" he sneered. "I am no Nord. Perhaps your vows do not apply to me."

Grimacing, she snapped, "My vow is to the Thane... whomsoever holds the title. Even if..." Wincing, she forced herself to continue. "Even if the Thane _is_ Orsimeri."

"I will try to be reassured by your... heartfelt words," Ashtulagal growled. Then he groaned, as the pain in his arm became too much to bear.

"Let me see to that," she snapped impatiently, and stepped forward. Closing her eyes, she cast the necessary, and more powerful, healing spell that restored his arm. Ashtu flexed his hand experimentally; back to normal.

An awkward silence stretched for several moments. Some of the Orc's ire had drained with the healing; pain often soured his mood even more than it usually was. Yet still, he'd had all he could endure in this matter.

"I will give you a choice," he said evenly. "Come morning, you will give answer. You can go back to Whiterun, back to your Jarl's service. It does not matter in the slightest to me if your honor is stained by this. Or, you can accompany me to High Hrothgar, be satisfied that I presented myself in good faith to your... Greybeards, _then_ go back to your Jarl. Either way, once you answer, you will _not say another fucking word to me_. Do I make myself clear?"

He was somewhat satisfied by the contrite way she nodded, unable to meet his eyes. Without waiting for her to toss another insulting rejoinder his way, Ashtu stormed back to the campsite to finish cooking.

The remainder of the evening was blissfully quiet, if coldly so. Ashtu's grim countenance thwarted any attempts Lydia might have made to engage him in conversation, even if she'd wanted to. He didn't look at her, didn't speak to her, barely acknowledged her presence at all. Stretching out on his bedroll, he turned his back to her and stared into the darkness beyond the firelight for quite some time, listening to distant animal sounds, insects, and that infuriating woman's scuffling around as she divested herself of the heavy plate armor she wore.

It was humiliating to realize he felt an almost primal urge to see what she wore beneath her armor. Had it really been _that_ long? _You are pathetic_ , he thought to himself. _If you want it so badly, go to a blind whore_.

_What would you have me do, strip to nothing?_

_Stop it...stop it right now..._

_...strip to nothing?_

_Malacath, give me strength!_

Rolling onto his back, he stared up at the stars, at the fulsome moon, silently ordering his treacherous thoughts to shut the hell up. He caught a glimpse of something pale in the corner of his eye, and turned his head.

Lydia was already asleep, clearly not troubled by madness as he was. She was lying on her stomach, head pillowed on her arms. Being a Nord, she was not bothered by the cold, and wore only a thin linen shirt and knee-length linen trousers, and no blanket to cover her body. Her raised arms had pulled the shirt up, exposing a good deal of her back.

He tore his eyes skyward again, and gritted his teeth.

... _strip to nothing?_

He didn't even realize he was looking at her again, and winced as he forced himself to roll over once more. It _had_ been a long time, apparently.

Sleep finally sneaked up on the Orc, and he drifted off. In the morning, it was easy to forget his weakness when he saw her haughty sneer in the full light of day.

"Do you have an answer?" he growled after packing up the cooking utensils and his gear.

"I do," she replied, "and a counter-offer."

Straightening, he leveled a suspicious glare at her. "I did not leave it open to negotiation."

"I barely care. I will accompany you to High Hrothgar. However, I will not return to Whiterun," she said stiffly. "The oath of a housecarl is for life, and until I die, I shall remain in your service."

"Until you die."

"Correct. So unless you slay me, I will serve you."

"Would it be too much to ask that you serve _silently_?"

"There is no guarantee that I would be capable of that, I'm afraid."

"No, of course not," Ashtu smirked as he hoisted his pack. "Tell me. Have you never set foot outside of your own province?"

Startled, Lydia's formal posture faltered. "What do you mean?"

"It is a simple question," he replied as he led the way to the northbound road. "Have you ever crossed the borders? Ever seen a land other than Skyrim?"

"Well...no." She trotted to catch up, then fell into step beside him. "I have lived in Whiterun Hold all my life. I have not even ventured too deeply into the other Holds."

"Hmph. I thought as much."

"I have never felt the need to go beyond the borders. This is my home. I am content here."

"Little wonder, then," he muttered.

"If you wish to insult me, do speak up," she snapped. "I do not want to miss a single word."

"I said nothing important," he said innocently. "So how many Orsimer have you known?"

Narrowing her eyes suspiciously at him, she said carefully, "I have never seen or spoken to an Orc until you."

Ashtulagal halted abruptly and turned to stare at her. She stopped as well.

"What are you looking at?" she snapped.

"I... do not understand," he said quietly. "The way you speak to me... I assumed..." Shaking his head in confusion, he resumed walking slowly up the road.

"You assumed what?"

Glancing at her, he said, "I assumed you knew some Orcs, and perhaps they... they were cruel to you. Or to your people. I know there are some who satisfy the need to fight by waylaying travelers, but the same can be said of any race." Sighing, he concluded, "It did not occur to me that you hate me simply because I am not a Nord."

She opened her mouth, perhaps in her own defense, then shut it quickly. Her brow furrowed uncertainly. "I... do not think I... _hate_ you."

Snorting in disbelief, Ashtu sneered, "You obviously do not like me. I did nothing, _said_ nothing, yet as soon as you saw me, you despised me, and we have not spoken a kind word to one another since. Call it what you like, it smells like hate to me. Believe me, I am quite familiar with the stench of it."

"My people..."

"No, this is not about your people!" he barked, stopping once more and rounding on her. "This is you. _Your_ choice. Follow blindly, or see with your own eyes. Do not blame others for your bigotry."

It seemed she could not look him in the face for a different reason than his ugliness now. Grimacing, he set off again. They would never reach that blasted Ivarstead at this rate.

They walked in silence for almost two hours before something interesting caught Ashtu's attention. Just off the side of the road, stone steps led up the hillside. Halting, he followed those steps with his eyes.

"Do not even think about it," Lydia warned.

"I cannot help myself," he said with some amusement. "Do you not feel it calling to you?" Turning to her, he cocked his head to the side. "Are you not curious? Do you not want to find out what is up there?"

" _No_ ," she said pointedly.

"You have no sense of adventure," he grumbled. "Stay here if you like. I cannot resist." Grinning almost gleefully, Ashtu drew his bow and stealthily mounted the steps.

With an exasperated sigh, Lydia assumed a similar, but in no way as comfortable or effective, posture and followed her Thane.

Partway up the stairs, they passed under a gateway, two standing stones with a stone lintel. Sharp ears twitching, Ashtu suddenly dropped lower and backed up, nearly knocking his housecarl on her backside.

"Mage," he hissed, nocking an arrow. "No, not mage. Necromancer," he corrected with a snarl when he saw the half dozen or so skeletal minions milling about on the crest of the hill. Lydia unsheathed her sword.

The sound of her blade being pulled was just loud enough to call attention to them. As soon as the first skeleton turned toward them, Ashtu loosed an arrow. Fortunately, the creatures were weak; his arrow disrupted the magic holding the skeleton together, and it burst asunder, showering the area with bones. He quickly fired on another.

Now the skeletons were swarming toward their position, and he heard Lydia give a battle cry before charging up to meet them. Cursing, the Orc circled to the right, flanking the skeletons and taking them down without hitting Lydia.

But there was still the necromancer to contend with, and he was clearly not happy about the interruption.

Hastily dipping an arrowhead into a vial of poison, Ashtu aimed and fired. The necromancer's summoning spell was interrupted, and he slowly fell over, unable to move a muscle. Ignoring the skeletons for the moment, the Orc charged up the hill, firing arrows at the prone caster as he ran. Most of them hit.

When he reached the necromancer, the paralysis had worn off, and the man was rising unsteadily to his feet. Ashtu didn't give him a chance to cast another spell; unsheathing his sword, he swept the necromancer's head from his shoulders.

Turning, he headed back down the hill to help Lydia, but it seemed the skeletons could not hold onto their unnatural existence without the mage, and they collapsed where they stood. So did Lydia.

Suddenly panicking, Ashtu raced to her side, and used what meager healing he possessed to staunch the many wounds she'd received. When she began to come around, he dripped a precious healing draft into her mouth.

Gradually, her breathing evened out, and she opened her eyes. They stared at one another for several moments.

"Thane Ashtulagal," she admonished hoarsely, a slight smile on her lips, "why in Oblivion did you not spare yourself the burden of your housecarl, and let me die?"

"A madness took me," he replied softly.


	5. Passion's Rites

Sitting up, Lydia rubbed the back of her neck and winced. She hadn't come _that_ close in a long time... Ironic that it was a pack of skeletons that almost took her to join them.

He didn't need to do what he did, she thought uncertainly. Had she not been bound by her oath, would she have done the same for him?

For the first time in her life, she wasn't certain of the answer.

"I'm going to take a look up there," Ashtulagal said. "I'll be back."

Nodding, she watched him drop to a crouch and slowly make his way to the top of the hill. Even after a battle, he was taking no chances, advancing cautiously. She might have thought him a coward for such timid behavior, had she not seen how well it served him. There were many times in Fort Greymoor when a lack of caution might have spelled their ruin.

Rising stiffly, she stretched. He was returning.

"Anything interesting?" she asked.

"One of those stones that grant a blessing," he replied. He brushed past her with barely a glance and began descending the old stone steps, back to the road.

"Did you accept it?" she asked, trotting to catch up.

"No," he snapped.

Rolling her eyes, she said, "Was it not a blessing worthy of the Dragonborn?"

He stopped and glared at her. "It was a Ritual stone. It would grant me the power to raise the dead. Would _you_ have accepted it?"

"No, I would not," she replied quietly. He snorted and resumed.

"It is unnatural," he snarled. "The dead should remain so." Shooting her a hostile glance, he said, "You Nords condemn us for burning our dead. You would have us leave them in the earth, free for the taking."

Lydia was suddenly uncomfortable, remembering tales told by better-traveled Nords of what occurred beneath the funeral pyres of Orsimeri chieftains, and how she grimaced with distaste at such acts of depravity. She'd never cared _why_ Orcs fed their dead to the flames, only that they did, and now she wondered if the other rumor was even true. It burned hot in her mind to ask, but she wasn't sure how.

"Thane Ashtulagal," she said tentatively.

"Just Ashtu," he said impatiently.

"Very well... Ashtu. I would ask... if something I have heard about... your people... is true. I do not know how to ask it."

Rolling his eyes, he shrugged. "Go ahead. You cannot be more insulting than you have been so far."

"I was told that... a chieftain's death is celebrated," she began cautiously.

"So it is," Ashtu confirmed with a nod. "We sing him to the ancestors, boast of his deeds to Malacath."

"Some... clearly mistaken people have said that there is much drinking and... the chieftain's wives are... enjoyed... by the warriors... during the ceremony," she said awkwardly in a low voice.

It began as a deep, quiet rumble in his chest. She stared at him with alarm, watching his mouth twitching. Then he exploded.

With laughter.

He had to stop walking. Ashtu leaned over, hands on his knees, and laughed so hard tears streamed down his face.

Lydia wasn't sure how to react. Should she join him in laughter at the absurd idea?

"Forgive me," he finally said, his mirth subsiding. "I have never heard such a thing."

Sighing with relief, Lydia said with a shaky laugh, "Such behavior at a funeral. It would be uncivilized, even for..."

He sobered and glared at her coldly. "Such things do occur, but not with the chieftain's wives."

Her face went slack. "That... that is disgusting."

Curling his lip, he started walking again. "You do not understand, nor do you wish to."

"Tell me, then," Lydia demanded, falling in beside him. "Explain to me the purpose of violating women at the foot of a flaming corpse!"

He stopped again and nearly rammed his chest into hers. His face was contorted with fury. "It is not a violation, it is a ritual! In my village, _mated_ pairs who have not yet borne children seek the blessing of Malacath when his attention is focused on us. Others seek the strength and virility of the chieftain, his wives, and the village itself, and lie with _willing_ partners as an offering."

"That is _foul_! In front of the entire _village_?"

Ashtu's eyes flew open wide in shock. He took a deep breath and lowered his voice, yet his teeth were clenched. "We do not embrace one another before the eyes of the _village_. The pyre burns for _days_. It is tended well. A _tent_ is erected for use. You think because we are Orcs we fuck one another like animals?"

"I didn't know!" she cried. "That is what I was told. I have no idea what you people do, whether you rut like beasts or... or... touch each other with gentleness."

"If you do not know, do not assume!" he roared. "We do what all folk do, the same way all folk do it! There is _no difference_!"

"I find that hard to believe," she snapped contemptuously. "I look at you, and I cannot imagine you even _facing_ your lover, much less using the term."

Infuriated, Ashtu grabbed her arms and threw her down on the hard ground. Momentarily stunned, Lydia lay there like a rag doll, shaking her head. When she came to her senses, Ashtu had dropped to his knees.

" _This_ is how we do it," he growled, shoving her legs apart. Leaning over her on his hands and knees and breathing heavily, he snarled, "We look our _lovers_ in the eye. We touch them." He raised a hand to her face, and she flinched, but he gently stroked her cheek as she stared up at him in confusion. He frowned uncertainly, and his voice softened. "We give them our hearts. We love them. Like all folk do." Squeezing his eyes shut, he closed his hand into a fist. "Forgive me." He slowly rose, unable to look her in the eyes. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Lydia stood up, hugging herself as she trembled. She drew a shuddering breath herself. Her face was flushed; she could feel the heat of it, and silently thanked the Nine he wasn't looking at her.

"I am a poor defender of my people's honor," Ashtu said quietly. "I am sorry."

Without a glance in her direction, he took off down the road with purposeful strides. Shaken, Lydia followed automatically, her thoughts in turmoil.

His eyes. They had changed color, and she had barely registered it, so shocked was she. The piss-yellow color she sneered at had turned golden, very like raw honey, at the height of his fury. She watched him walk, noted the rigid set to his shoulders, how his head was slightly bowed, the movement of his hips. His hands were still shaking.

They continued in silence for some time, neither looking at the other, until the sun settled toward the horizon behind them. Her storm of thought broke when she saw Ashtu suddenly dart off the road into the brush. Bewildered, she followed.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Caution," he replied in an undertone. "We approach Valtheim. I have been this way before, and it was not unattended."

She was close to him, could feel his tension. Looking at him, she found herself studying his profile. He had a firm set to his jaw; she could see the muscles flexing as he ground his teeth in concentration. In shape, his ears were like any _mer_ 's, sharply pointed and perhaps a bit larger. With a start, she realized there was a small chunk taken out of the one she was looking at, as if a small animal had nipped him too hard.

Once more, her staring did not go unnoticed, and she found him glaring at her.

"Save it for when we camp," he growled. "You can gawk at me all you want then."

"I am not _gawking,"_ she hissed. "You are... cursed hideous. How your mother must have wept at your birth."

"She could not weep," he snarled viciously. "She _died_ birthing me."

Stunned, Lydia could not respond.

"There is a sentry outside," he snapped, returning his gaze to the tower. "I saw movement up top. I think there is an archer up there. He will no doubt fire if he sees us."

"Are you so certain they are bandits?"

Ignoring her, he went on, "At least two on the span. Maybe a few more inside the towers on either side." He squinted, raising his head slightly. "Archer on the hillside across the gorge. He could be trouble. I can barely see him in this light."

Drawing his bow and nocking an arrow, Ashtu slowly took aim, mindful that movement could be seen more easily than stillness. The sentry looked bored, kicking up dust and rocks, pacing with eyes on the ground. Such a slovenly approach to guard duty would have her in the stocks back in Whiterun, Lydia mused.

Suddenly, she heard a _twang_ , and could almost see the flight of Ashtu's arrow as it soared toward the sentry. The shaft neatly pierced him in the throat, and he scrabbled at the wound with curled fingers before he slumped silently to the ground and went still.

Ashtu's eyes now rose to the top of the nearest tower, and again he squinted to make out details in the sun's dying light. There was no sign that the sentry's demise had alerted anyone. The Orc stretched out on his back in the tall scrub grass, and leveled his bow toward the tower's parapet. Frowning, Lydia almost questioned his bizarre behavior when his arrow launched.

The shot struck low, clattering off the stone. Lydia sneered, shaking her head. Ashtu grimly nocked another arrow and waited.

The bandit in the tower, clearly not the brightest candle in the temple, stepped out into the open to see what made the noise. Ashtu's second shot caught him between the eyes.

She couldn't help but look at him with admiration. Luckily, he was too busy picking himself up to notice.

"Stay back," he said quietly over his shoulder as he approached the doorway at the foot of the tower. Keeping herself well behind him, she followed. Ashtu flattened himself against the stone wall beside the doorway and listened for a moment before slowly entering in a crouch.

It was frustrating. Lydia took her vow seriously, yet this cursed Orc refused to let her fulfill her duty. She'd fought hard to gain acceptance and respect among the guard in Whiterun; did she have to do it all over again with Ashtu?

Seething, she entered the tower in his wake. Even as she crept up, he was drawing his bow on a shadowy figure at the top of the stairs. Once he brought the bandit down, the tower erupted; another thug was just around the corner.

The close quarters forced Ashtu to abandon his bow and draw sword. Now, Lydia felt she could outshine him. Elbowing her way past the Thane, she roared a battle cry and stormed up the stairs. Her two-handed sword cleaved the first man from shoulder to hip. Following through, she took out a grim-faced woman on the landing.

Lydia gasped with battle fury as she searched for another opponent, but there were none at the moment. Shooting a furious look at her, Ashtu brushed past and looked out toward the span. The two men he'd seen before were racing to their tower. An arrow suddenly flew through the door, embedding in Ashtu's shoulder. Grunting from the pain, he ducked back inside.

There was no time to tend his wound; the two from the span reached the doorway and Lydia was forced to engage them in Ashtu's defense.

The fight was furious, and Lydia was obliged to take a few injuries in the process. The narrow doorway afforded her some advantage, as the men couldn't swarm her, yet they effectively blocked her from the archer across the gorge. Swinging her sword in a wide arc, she growled under her breath with satisfaction as she split open the belly of the man before her, and severed the sword-arm of the other. Dispatching them after that took mere moments.

Feverish yet uncannily alert, she saw Ashtu ripping the arrow out of his shoulder with a grimace. Lydia strode purposely toward him.

"You did not need to push me aside," the Orc growled, pressing hard on the seeping wound. His disgruntled expression turned to one of utter shock when Lydia grabbed his face and kissed him.


	6. Dead Things, Mikey, Dead Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a spoiler ahead. The tomb in question is Hillgrund's Tomb, and the solution to the painfully easy riddle is revealed. Sorry if I'm not quoting the NPC directly; I got the basic gist. If you want to know what he really says, feel free to visit.

Lydia jumped back from him so quickly he had no chance to make a fool of himself by responding to her kiss. Ashtu stared at her in disbelief for a moment before recovering his senses.

"Sss...save that for camp as well," he said unsteadily. "Now is not the time."

Forcing himself to move, he mumbled something barely coherent about fetching his bow, then hastened down the stairs to where he'd dropped it. He found himself dearly wishing for this day to end; he knew damn well what possessed the woman to do that. The sooner calm surroundings came to them, the better.

When he rejoined her on the landing, Ashtu stole a quick glance at her flushed face. She looked thoroughly humiliated. He wondered if battle lust had ever taken her before. It was common enough in his experience.

_Do not think about it. Do not remember._

Ashtu nocked an arrow and took aim at the troublesome archer across the gorge. He went through three arrows before he ever hit, a failure he stubbornly blamed on the gathering night.

The archer's threat removed, Ashtu led the way out the door and onto the span. A door into the next level of the tower was to their left, and he cautiously peered in. No signs of movement. If anyone had been up there, they were likely brought down to the lower level by the commotion. Still, he searched the room and went up the stairs to the sleeping quarters. No one else in this tower. He relaxed.

Passing Lydia on the way back down, he avoided her eyes, which seemed to be her preference at the moment. Crossing the span, they encountered only two more bandits who they quickly slew. Ashtu set about methodically collecting any coin or other valuables carried by them.

They returned to the southern tower's sleeping quarters. There was a bed there, which Ashtu purposely avoided. Laying out his pallet, he removed his sword belt and laid out his weapons.

"I must apologize," Lydia said stiffly. He was startled by the sound of her voice; neither had said anything for an hour or more. Not since... "For my behavior. It was inexcusable."

Forcing on a mantle of indifference, Ashtu shrugged as he wiped down his sword. "It happens. Battle makes the blood boil and the mind go mad, sometimes." He glanced up and saw her sitting on the edge of the bed, her face in her hands, elbows on her knees. The Orc laid the sword aside. "It is not the first time I have been... convenient."

Lydia looked up and stared at him. "I would not say that you were... _convenient_. Whatever do you mean by that?"

Sitting down with his back resting against the wall, he drew his knees up and rested his arms across them. "Orsimeri women are fierce fighters, just as the men are. Our companies are mixed, as are our quarters at times. It is not unheard of to be woken in the night by..." He paused, wondering what gem of disdainful wisdom she would throw at him for _that_. "I came to manhood with a woman of our company who was aroused by battle. It was a fierce skirmish, and we were outnumbered, but prevailed. Our blood sang, and we came together like fire on the grasslands." He tilted his head back and closed his eyes with fond remembrance.

"I see," she said quietly. "It was... your first time, then?"

"Yes. I was young and foolish enough to believe it meant something," he said flatly. He shook his head. "The next time her blood ran hot, I was not there, and she slaked her lust on another." He shrugged. "Such is the way of the warrior, I have found."

"It is not _my_ way," she said stiffly. "No matter _how_ 'hot' my blood has run, I have not sought comfort among my fellow guards."

"No, I imagine you have not," he said.

Her brow furrowed and her eyes narrowed. "What are you saying? Do you think I have never...?"

Startled, Ashtu shook his head. "No, I'm certain you _have_ , I just..."

"Oh, so now you believe me a _whore_ , is that it?"

Rolling his eyes impatiently, he said, " _No_. I am saying neither of those things. If you will shut up and listen..."

"I think I've heard quite enough," she snapped, standing up. "I shall see you in the morning, Thane Ashtulagal." Her heavy boots thundered on the wooden stairs as she ascended to the top of the tower.

Sighing, Ashtu shook his head. _Women_.

* * *

The following morning found Ashtu sullenly leading the way down the road once more, his silent and grumpy housecarl dragging along behind. It was a rough night. Even so brief a kiss as that had sent him into shameful dreams from which he startled awake with a throbbing need. Calling to mind every insult that had passed her lips since their meeting hadn't done much to dull his desire, either. _You are indeed pathetic_ , he thought to himself. _To want a sharp-tongued, haughty, stuck-up, disdainful, full-lipped, smooth-skinned, ample-bosomed...Stop it right now!_

He barely relaxed his stormy countenance when they passed through a milling settlement along the river, snarling threateningly at the residents who greeted him uncertainly. A couple of hours past the mill was a crossroads. Ashtu stopped to read the weathered signs.

"Have you ever been to Windhelm?" he asked suddenly.

"No, nor do I wish to see it now," she retorted with what Ashtu would classify as unnecessary snippiness.

"Hmph," he snorted. "It is where your Ulfric resides, is it not? The Jarl who leads the Stormcloaks?"

"Yes," she replied slowly. "How do you know this?"

"I shared a prisoner wagon with the man," Ashtu said. "We were both brought to Helgen for Imperial justice."

"You did not say you fought at his side," Lydia said, suddenly interested. Her earlier anger seemed to melt away.

"I did not say it because it was not so," he snapped. "You continue to _not listen_. I was in the same wagon, captured by Imperials for being a rebel, which was false. I ran into a group of rebels crossing the border at the same time, and was caught up in the trap that ensnared them."

"Yet you spoke with him."

"Briefly. Or I should say, Ralof in the wagon did the speaking. They had covered the Jarl's mouth out of fear of his Shout."

"Yes, the _thu'um_ of dragons. I understand he is learned in such things." She nodded. "It is rumored he Shouted the High King asunder."

"Perhaps. Regardless, Windhelm is his seat. Do you want to see it?"

"But... Ivarstead...," she insisted without much conviction.

"Will still be there. We have bartering to do." Allowing a smile to invade his expression for a moment, he said, "Of course, I intend to go there anyway. What you want is of no matter."

"As my Thane wishes," she said haughtily.

Satisfied, Ashtu set off down the road in the direction of Windhelm. It was a crisp, cold afternoon, with little sound interrupting the peacefulness, apart from the constant _clank_ of Lydia's armor. He wondered if he could manage to dull the sound with well-placed padding. Of course, it didn't take long for his benign thoughts to enter unwanted realms as he first imagined fitting leather lining between the plates, then descended into visions of his hands prying back the protective shielding to expose the vulnerable flesh beneath.

 _She is not a **mudcrab**_ , he admonished himself angrily.

It wasn't even a sound that caught him off guard so much as a scent. There was something... he halted and turned toward the hillside coming down to meet the road.

"No," Lydia suddenly said. "I will suffer a side trip to Windhelm, but if you go haring up the hill for no reason..."

"I never do _anything_ without reason," he growled. Unhooking his bow, Ashtu headed up the hill.

"Oh, for the love of Mara," the beleaguered housecarl said in an undertone as she dutifully followed.

Before long, they encountered pillars of stone with lintels, as they had the day before leading to the Ritual stone. Ashtu dropped warily into a crouch and crept up the hill. At the top, cut into the rock, was the entrance to a tomb. Curling his lip, Ashtu looked around, scenting the air.

"Don't tell me you have a beast's sense of smell also," Lydia said with disgust.

"Keep your fucking mouth shut, and _no_ , I do not," Ashtu snarled under his breath. "I smelled something... dead. This is a tomb. If any of the... residents have been raised, I will lower them." Glancing back at her, he hissed, "Even _your_ nose would find a risen corpse."

He was gratified to see her tentatively sniff and grimace. Nodding with satisfaction, he sneaked up to the door and eased it open.

To their surprise, they found a Nord man pacing nervously in the antechamber of the tomb. When they entered, he turned to them with relief. "I beg of you, please help me. I am Golldir. A necromancer with a grudge against my family has come to defile the bodies of my ancestors with his foul magics. My Aunt Agna has gone ahead, but I am too fearful to follow."

Straightening, Ashtu looked at the man with unmasked disdain. "You allowed your aunt to face this man alone? Have you no spine?"

Shifting uncomfortably, he said, "I have... terrible memories of this place, and could not face it. Please, I will accompany you, if you will only help me find my aunt."

"Very well," Ashtu sighed. Glancing at Lydia, he said sarcastically, "If it would not be inconvenient for my housecarl, I will help." She scowled but said nothing.

"Good. I will... follow you, if that is all right."

"And I will try not to shoot you in the ass," Ashtu muttered under his breath. Apparently, Lydia heard his comment, and nudged his back in silent reprimand.

Steeling himself, Ashtu led the way through the tomb doorway and into the crypt. As soon as their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they saw the nightmarish form of a draugr shuffling in their direction. Ashtu hastily nocked an arrow and took aim. Before he could release the arrow, both warriors charged forward on the attack. Furious, the Orsimer shoved the arrow back into his quiver and stomped down the ramp, then stood apart with his arms folded over his chest and waited.

Between the two of them, the draugr was slain quickly, though not quietly.

"Ah, you're finished now, eh?" Ashtu growled. "This is how it will work. You will _both_ stay the _fuck_ behind me. I will shoot down any draugr that comes out of hiding. If any get past me, _then_ you may throw yourselves at them. Get in my way, and you _will_ get my arrows up your asses. Have I made myself clear?"

The Nords hung their heads uncomfortably before his wrath. Lydia recovered herself first. "As ever, the soul of tact, you are, Thane Ashtulagal."

"Mind your tongue," he snapped.

"But... you are an Orc," Golldir said uncertainly. "I would have expected you to..."

"Charge in, bellowing a battle cry?" Ashtu finished mockingly. "How narrowly you Nords view the world." Shoving the two warriors aside, he dropped into a crouch and slowly advanced. Ahead, another draugr was stirring from its alcove. "Watch and learn, children."

Ashtu's arrow slew the undead creature before it even marked their presence.

The necromancer's time in the tomb was clearly well spent. Many of the Nord's forebears rose to greet them as they fought their way deeper. They finally found his aunt, and Golldir wept over her body.

"Take heart," Ashtu said gruffly. "Had you accompanied her, perhaps you would have shared her fate. With us, there is a chance for vengeance."

The Nord man looked up at Ashtu. "You only swore to help me find her."

"I do not like necromancers," the Orc said stiffly, unwilling to show how moved he was by the man's grief. "There is no filth I am more willing to cleanse."

Nodding, Golldir rose and tested the door to the main chamber. "It is barred from the inside. We must take the secret way. I hope I can recall what my aunt told me of it."

Passing through another door in the chamber, they continued on. The draugr were more plentiful as they descended, proving they were on the right path. Ashtu was hard pressed to fire fast enough, and had to grudgingly accept the warriors' aid. When they reached a dead end, he swore under his breath.

"No, this is it," Golldir insisted, though he looked about him in confusion. "She told me once that the bear pointed the way, but I do not know what she meant by that."

There were several stout pillars in the chamber with giant faces carved upon them. In the gaping mouth of each was an image of a totem animal. Beside each face, a chain hung over a blazing brazier.

Ashtu shook his head. He'd solved several of these riddles in ruins he'd explored. The ancient Nords seemed to believe such puzzles were baffling to outsiders. Without a word, he strode up to the pillar bearing the image of a bear and yanked on the chain.

At the far end of the room, a sarcophagus up against the wall suddenly dropped its lid on the floor with a thunderous crash, revealing a torchlit room beyond.

"You do not need to look so smug," Lydia hissed. Ashtu smirked as he led the way through.

Minutes later, they were cautiously entering the main chamber. Above on a raised platform, Ashtu could just make out the black-cloaked form of the necromancer, performing some rite on a mummified corpse. Furious, Ashtu let fly an arrow.

Though he struck the caster, it was not a fatal blow, and alerted him to the intruders' presence. The stench of dark magic filled the chamber, and bluish fingers of energy snaked out to several sarcophagi. The lids of each one touched burst asunder, and their owners slowly rose.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Lydia whispered.

Curling his lip, Ashtu snarled, " _Now_ you have a bad feeling?"

Again, Ashtu did not complain as the Nords roared up the stairs to meet the undead threat. He fired on those draugr using bows, bringing them down and out of the fight quickly. Then he concentrated on the necromancer, who simply raised any fallen draugr nearby.

The battle was chaotic. There must have been a dozen draugr, coming at them from all directions. Ashtu was pumping arrows into the midst of the fight with such sharp focus he didn't realize he was taking hits from behind. Whirling, he dropped his bow and unsheathed a sword and enchanted axe, then beat down the draugr attacking him. Now he _did_ bellow a war cry, feeling the instinctive need burning in his gut. Turning back to the main fight, he charged the necromancer and brought his weapons to bear in close quarters. The look of fear on the Dunmer's face filled Ashtu with satisfaction, and he didn't feel or even take note of the magical defense thrown up.

Even when he took a face full of strength-sucking enchantment, he still swung mercilessly until his limbs were suddenly too weak to lift his weapons. Furious, he drove his forehead against the Dunmer's, stunning him and interrupting the cast. There was nothing else he could do, for his arms hung limp, except use his only remaining weapon. Darting forward, Ashtu sunk his tusks into the necromancer's throat and held on.

It took a few minutes for the _mer_ 's struggles to still, during which Ashtu's strength returned somewhat. Releasing the necromancer, he stepped back, and the Dunmer's body slipped bonelessly to the floor. All was silent, the battle over. He looked around, and found Lydia gasping for breath, Golldir leaning wearily against an open, empty sarcophagus. Both were staring at him with disgust.

Blood poured down the Orc's chin. Turning aside, he spat the blood from his mouth. He roughly wiped his face on the back of his gauntlet. The uncomfortable silence held until they emerged from the tomb.

"Your aid is appreciated," Golldir said uneasily. "I think I will stay here awhile, put my family to rest as well as I am able."

Nodding, Ashtu left the tomb, Lydia trailing along silently behind. Would that she could remain so.

"That was the most foul thing I have ever witnessed," she said when they had left the tomb and Golldir far behind. "Is such behavior common among your people?"

"No," he replied sourly. "When death is staring you in the face, you do what you have to do."

"You had weapons..."

"I could not lift them!" he roared, turning on her. She cowered from him now, and he winced. "The cursed mage took my strength. I had _nothing else_."

"Before we left Whiterun, one of the guards who helped defend the watchtower said you could Shout like the Dragonborns of old," she snapped. "You could have..."

"I will _not_ use that vile power!" he yelled. "I am Ashtulagal of the Dragontail Mountains! I am Orsimer! That power is _not mine_! The Dragonborn is _not me_! I will not _use_ it, I will not _embrace_ it, I will not _endure_ it!"

Shaking with fury, he stomped down the road toward Windhelm, not caring whether his housecarl followed him or not.


	7. Answering the Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visiting another in-game location, this time the Abandoned Prison. No real spoiler alert, just an FYI. It's located off the main road heading north to Windhelm.

Lydia kept her distance from him as they continued on their way to Windhelm. Of course, she recognized his own distaste with what he'd done, but it was still upsetting. There were vampires enough in Skyrim without non-vampires taking up such behavior.

Moreso was she confused by his even stronger resentment of being Dragonborn, seemingly increasing with every reminder. She was not in the least confident that the Greybeards would have the power or inclination to rid him of what he considered a 'taint'. Maybe he had the same doubts, she mused as she walked behind him. He seemed bent on avoiding High Hrothgar with each step. Not what she would expect of someone anxious to be cleansed of a curse.

Sighing with resignation, she followed Ashtulagal as he darted off the road once more, undoubtedly distracted by yet another potential exploration. The sound of rushing water came to her ears as they crept toward the crumbling remains of a fortress of some kind. The White River roared out of Whiterun Hold into Eastmarch at this point, and spilled down the hillside in cascading falls. Lydia was momentarily filled with a fierce pride in the wild beauty of her homeland. Glancing at the Orc, she was surprised to see him also gazing about him in awe.

"If we did nothing but follow the roads," he said softly, as if too loud a word would disturb the tranquility, "we would miss such a treasure as this."

"You surprise me, Ashtu," Lydia murmured. "Are you a poet as well?"

He chuckled quietly. "No. My tongue is too rough for pretty words. But I know beauty when I see it."

She glanced at him, and found herself reflected in his honey-colored eyes. They both hastily looked away, and Lydia felt her cheeks heat up.

"Reminds me of home," he went on, his voice a bit huskier than before. "In the spring when the snowmelt comes down from the peaks, the rivers run wild, gallop over themselves to get down the mountain...the young folk in our village play in the spray..." He shook himself and began searching for a way to cross.

Lydia wasn't sure how to react. Part of her wanted to sneer, make some kind of scathing comment, but that part was losing its vigor. The more time spent in the Thane's company, the more... worthy of her respect he seemed to be. Ashtu wasn't anything like the tales she'd heard of Orcs, nearly all of which described a barbaric people, bloodthirsty and combative even toward those they counted as allies. Her father oft told her how outsiders could not be trusted, Orsimer least of all. Crude and unlovely animals, he'd called them. She'd never asked why he disliked them so. Now she wondered what would inspire such prejudice, but her father had long since gone to the ancestors. Perhaps her elder brother knew?

Sighing, she realized Ashtu was right; it wasn't the opinions of others, but her own that mattered. And at the moment, she couldn't find a single thing to scorn.

"Here," Ashtu said. "We'll cross here." He led the way, hopping from stone to stone, to the opposite bank. Now Lydia was focused on their destination, and she realized it was an old abandoned prison. She wasn't as familiar with such structures in Eastmarch; she could have told him anything he'd like to know were they still in Whiterun Hold.

It was eerily quiet. The ground sloped down to a ledge where a door provided access to the one remaining tower, built into the hillside. It didn't feel like a Nordic construct; more like Imperial. Lydia's lip curled.

Glancing back expectantly, Ashtu waited for her nod of readiness before slowly opening the door and slipping silently inside.

The ruined tower was definitely a prison at one time, a fact proven by a scrap of parchment with the guards' final orders lying on a table in the main room. Ashtu skimmed the contents, scowling. He handed the paper to Lydia with a grimace.

"Those sons of dogs," she hissed when she read it. "Prisoners. Nords, I do not doubt. Left to drown, locked in their cells, while the Imperial pigs scampered for cover."

"We do not know more than what is on that paper," the Orc warned in an undertone. "The prisoners may have escaped. We should keep looking."

Nodding, she followed him as he headed down into the cell block. On the floor of the raised hall running between the cells, the skeletal remains of an Imperial guard, if his rusted weaponry could be trusted, lay sprawled. Clutched in its bony hand was a note. Ashtu dropped to one knee and delicately pried the brittle parchment free and read it.

"It would seem the prisoners had plans of their own," he commented, passing the note to Lydia.

"I hope they were successful," she replied after reading about the planned escape.

"Not all of them were," Ashtu growled, and drew his bow. Suddenly alert, Lydia assumed a fighting stance, unsheathing her sword.

Two of the cells contained the spirits of former residents. Sensing the warmth of the living, they began to converge.

"I'll take the one on the right, you get the left," Ashtu said, and loosed an arrow at the one he'd claimed. Momentarily surprised by his change of heart, for the Orc always seemed bent on taking every enemy down personally, Lydia recovered and charged the ghost gliding towards them on the left flank.

When the spirits dissolved into piles of ectoplasm, Thane Ashtu caught his housecarl's eye and nodded grimly. She felt unexpectedly warmed by his silent acknowledgement.

They explored the damp ruin, dispatching two more spirits, before locating and using the prisoners' escape route through a trapdoor in one of the cells. They finally emerged in the darkness beneath a bridge spanning the river.

"We should make camp," Ashtu grudgingly admitted. "I will take first watch."

Lydia sat next to the small campfire and stared at the rushing water flowing beneath the bridge. She couldn't sleep. Up on the span, she sometimes saw the Orsimer's dark profile against the snow-laden sky as he paced, eyes alert.

She was troubled in her mind and heart, and her furrowed brow must surely show it. He relented, gave her the space to fulfill her function. Was he finally accepting the arrangement? She did not dare hope he would come to likewise accept his nature as Dragonborn. Perhaps it was a veiled blessing that he did not crave the power rumored to be possessed by those born with the souls of dragons. There were truly grim tales told of some who had not used that power for the betterment of those beneath them. For an Orsimer to be in possession of...

No. She almost saw through her father's eyes. He would no doubt have considered such a blessing wasted on an Orc, dreaded the consequences of such a formidable weapon in the hands of a barbarian too uncouth and unlettered to use it 'properly', and perhaps sought to...

It was at the very least unseemly to speak ill of the dead, considered nearly a crime were the dead in question actual kin. But she knew exactly what her father would do. He would have killed Ashtu, rather than accept the risk of allowing the Orc the opportunity to prove his worth. The thought made her terribly uncomfortable. Ashamed, even.

She seemed only to have closed her eyes when Ashtu nudged her awake to take her turn on watch. Rubbing her bleary eyes, she watched him stretch out with a relieved sigh on his bedroll.

And suddenly wanted to join him.

The thought startled her into full wakefulness, and she quickly looked away lest her eyes betray her. But he was too weary, and was asleep before she stood stiffly and buckled on her sword. Relieved, she hastened from the camp.

 _How could I think such a thing?_ she demanded of herself. Out of the blue, with no warning, to have such a wanton desire present itself...

She suddenly winced. No, it was not without warnings. She had plenty of them, only she had been too stubbornly devoted to a false opinion to see it coming. Watching his hands, not acknowledging how their movement inspired a desire to feel them on her body... His slow, measured grace, wondering how it would feel to lie beneath him... The shape of his hips, and wanting to wrap her legs about them...

To punctuate her embarrassment, she saw again in her mind's eye his demonstration of Orsimeri coupling, and she nearly fell to her knees. Relentless in its ferocity came the memory of that brief kiss, and she did drop.

"Divine goddess Mara," she whispered desperately, "rid me of such thoughts, I beg of you!" Even _she_ felt the amusement of Mara as the walls she had built were torn down, brick by brick.

_You should not have spoken my name, mortal._


	8. Dancing Before the Eye of Mara

The morning was colder than usual now that they were making their way northward. Even Ashtulagal was starting to get a bit of a chill now and then. The sky threatened to unleash quite a storm, though it didn't seem inclined to do so just yet.

Perhaps it was the wind in their faces that made Lydia keep her eyes down, and reddened her cheeks. Ashtu had no idea. She'd not spoken a word to him since the day before, but she often kept her silence, so he wasn't particularly concerned. He had a feeling her reticence would be tested should he succumb to the distraction of something new and interesting once more.

That moment came after they passed a sawmill. After the sheer, looming cliff face smoothed into gentle slopes, the Orc felt a distinct pull, and climbed the hill unquestioningly. Lydia only hesitated a moment before wordlessly following.

Night was falling when they reached the lake. The Orsimer breathed deeply the clean, fresh air. The first stars of the evening were peeking out, their crystalline brightness reflected on the still surface very like a mirror of the heavens.

"Again, something we would miss if we did not look," he mused quietly.

"I wonder what this place is called," Lydia said quietly, still unwilling to look at him. He attributed it to his own brutal appearance, so different from her own people in many ways. Hideous, she'd called him. Perhaps, judging by the less frequent insults, she was beginning to see him in a new light. Whatever change of heart she was experiencing, it was certain to be disturbed by the harsh reminder of his Boethia-cursed tusks and dark skin. If her opinion would soften more easily without being forced to look at him, he would have to accept it.

Digging in his pack, he produced a travel-stained map of the region. So many of his maps were in a similar state, well-thumbed, oft opened and carefully rerolled. He pored over the area marked _Eastmarch_ , eventually finding the approximate location of the prison they'd explored the day before, then the bend in the river where the mill stood.

"Looks like this is Mara's Eye Pond," he said.

"It's... what?" Lydia said with surprise. He glanced up at her.

"Do you know this place?"

"No," she said quickly. "Never heard of it."

He narrowed his eyes. She certainly looked nervous, for not having heard anything of it. "Should this place be avoided?"

"I see no reason to look too deeply into the Eye of Mara," she said stiffly, avoiding his gaze.

"I am certain it is not _literally_ her eye." What was _wrong_ with her? She acted like one who is being hunted, hugging herself, eyes darting about, never seeming to light on anything for long, especially not him. Were he questioning Lydia regarding murder, he would have to consider her a prime suspect.

"Nonetheless, the sooner we leave, the better," she replied.

Her anxiety alone convinced him that perhaps _this_ time, he should leave well enough alone. Shrugging, he turned away and headed back toward the road.

Out of nowhere it seemed, three figures descended upon them from the cover of the trees. Lydia cried out in alarm, then quickly recovered herself, drawing and swinging her sword in a single, flowing movement. Ashtu was forced to draw his edged weapons; they were upon him and gave no ground, refusing him the opportunity to retreat enough to use his bow.

The crisp air echoed with the clash of swords as they battled their assailants. Putting both weapons to good use, Ashtu kept two of the three at bay, hoping his housecarl would drop her opponent quickly and come to his aid. Toe-to-toe was not his preferred place to be, and he could feel many muscles he rarely used protesting loudly. Then all at once, a searing pain erupted in his abdomen, and he cried out even as he slid to his knees. As if in answer to his call, Lydia shifted focus and beat back his attackers, giving him breathing room. The Orc staggered to his feet and dropped his ax so he could hold his stomach. The sword he brought to bear in a blind rage, driving the black-robed _mer_ backwards into the lake's edge. With one final thrust, he skewered the man, ending the battle quickly.

By the sound of it, Lydia had likewise dispatched the other two, and he could hear her footsteps approaching quickly. He was on his knees again, but he couldn't understand why. He'd been stabbed in the gut, true, but it wasn't all _that_ painful. He honestly didn't know why she was calling his name and slapping his cheek. It was annoying, and he tried to knock her away with his free hand. Her face swam before his eyes, and though it _looked_ like she was shouting at him, he could hear nothing but a rushing wind in his ears. Then all went black.

* * *

The first thing Ashtu became aware of was the sound of crackling. Eventually, he felt warmth, but it took him another few moments to connect the two sensations. Then he saw dancing shadows through his eyelids, and pondered this new information for another moment.

"Ashtu," a voice said softly. It was familiar, that voice, but he couldn't place it right away. He supposed if he opened his eyes and looked at the face of the speaker, he might recognize her, but the idea frightened him for some reason. _One thing at a time_ , he thought firmly.

"Ashtu, wake up." The voice was more insistent, yet he didn't want to obey. He felt a gentle caress, and turned his head, pressing his cheek into the cool palm. The hand drew its thumb slowly across his lower lip. Such a strange sensation. His mouth opened slightly, and he tried to gently take hold of the thumb with his teeth, but was not successful. Disappointed, Ashtu allowed the shy digit to explore, stroking his lips lightly, touching his tusk in an almost curious manner.

"Ashtu," the voice said again, barely a whisper it seemed. "Can you hear me?"

He tried to answer, but it seemed that he had forgotten how to form words. How in Malacath's name had he forgotten that? His brow furrowed angrily, and he moved his face away from the distracting hand. But he nodded.

"Can you open your eyes?"

How was he supposed to do that? He'd forgotten that, too. A whimper escaped him as his distress increased.

"Ashtu," the voice said firmly, "you were poisoned. I've done what I can. You need to rest." The hand was on his face again, soothing his brow, and he calmed. Yet once again that thumb was touching his mouth, and this time he got a hold of it.

The hand did not pull away. He ran his lips over the calloused pad, flicked his tongue over it.

"Ashtu."

He groaned as the hand retreated. He licked his lips, trying to taste her once more. Something warm and soft touched them, and he sank deeper.

* * *

Pale light illuminated the lake shore when Ashtu woke. His mouth was dry, and his body hurt. He recalled little of how he came to be in this place, and nearly sat up to look around. Except that he wasn't alone.

Beside him, Lydia lay with her back pressed into the curve of his body. Her _bare_ back. He could not feel his leathers; could feel no clothing at all. What he _could_ feel was the warmth and softness of Lydia's body, a light sheen of sweat on her pale skin... His eyes flew open.

And suddenly it was night again, and he could see Lydia's silhouette against the campfire. She'd built a lean-to shelter over him, protecting him from the swirling snow he could see in the firelight.

With a mix of relief and disappointment, he noted that she was fully dressed, as was he. Had it been a dream? Shaking his head quickly, he grimaced. Of course, it was a dream.

Noting his movement, Lydia turned, then came over to kneel beside him. Her face was full of concern, and for the first time all day, she actually looked him in the eyes.

"You are back, my Thane," she said quietly, smiling a little.

"Where have I been?" He was surprised at how hoarse his voice sounded.

"I do not know if you remember. We were attacked by vampires," she said quietly. "Their lair was in a smuggler's den, in the center of the lake. A tiny island."

"Was?"

"You were unconscious for a day and a night," she replied. "I couldn't move you, so it seemed sensible to remove any further threats."

"Was I... bitten?" he ventured, trying hard not to let the fear show.

"No, you were not," she said soothingly, then added, "Neither was I."

He inwardly kicked himself for not inquiring after her condition. "Good," he replied lamely.

"You were poisoned, as I told you, though you may not remember."

"Vampires do not use poison," Ashtu said, his brow furrowing uncertainly.

"One of them was in the employ of the Dark Brotherhood, though whether he was also a vampire is not clear," she said. Her lip curled. "There is apparently a contract on your life." Fishing a note from her pack, she unfolded and read it aloud.

_As instructed, you are to eliminate Ashtulagal by any means necessary. The Black Sacrament has been performed - somebody wants this poor fool dead._

_We've already received payment for the contract. Failure is not an option._

"It is signed 'Astrid'," Lydia finished.

Ashtu stared at her, uncomprehending. He had never in his life done anything bad enough to warrant the Black Sacrament, as far as he knew. There had to be a mistake.

Seeing his confusion, her expression softened. "I have thought about this. I cannot believe you capable of an act that would inspire such... extreme measures." She swallowed hard and looked away. "I can only assume that... this is in some way related to... your being Dragonborn." She winced, as if she knew he would fly into a rage at the mere mention of his abnormality.

Had he not been brought so low by a coward's poisoned blade, he might have done just that. Sinking back on his bedroll, he stared at the canvas stretched above his head. He didn't want to think about it, not now. Not ever, if truth be told.

"It is a mistake," he said tightly. "I have wronged no one. I... do not know anyone named Astrid."

"I believe you," Lydia replied. "Perhaps we will learn something in Windhelm. And if not there..." Her voice trailed off and she looked away uncomfortably.

"Where, then?" Ashtu asked, frowning.

"Riften. My... brother is often there. He knows people who... may or may not be in the Brotherhood. As he may... or may not... be."

"Your... brother." He could not hide a look of disgust at even the suggestion that she may know or be related to an assassin.

"He was ever in defiance of our father's will," she said with an embarrassed shrug. "We must go to Windhelm first. You should see an apothecary. There may be lingering affects of the poison that I could not counter."

"Hmph," Ashtu grunted. "The visions were enough."

"What visions?"

Glancing at her, he found he couldn't look at her for more than a second. It was humiliating, what he had imagined. What he _thought_. But he didn't know what was real, what wasn't. He felt relatively safe in assuming that they had not slept together. If they had, he would curse the Divines and the Daedra both with his dying breath for removing all memory of it. But the rest...

"I thought... did I... bite your thumb?" he asked hesitantly.

"You tried to," she replied, looking away with as much embarrassment as he felt.

"You stopped me," he said with relief. "Good. I would not wish to make an ass of myself."

"I did not stop you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

His face went slack, but he rallied quickly. He had to be mistaken in how he was reading her now. "I felt... something... on my mouth..."

Lydia winced. "Mine."

"Your..."

"Mouth, yes," she replied stiffly.

"Was there... battle?" he asked uncertainly. The Orc couldn't imagine her seeking such things of him if there were no battle lust involved.

"Long since passed," she said. "I have no excuse for my behavior, and I apologize. You were... out of sorts. Not in your right mind. It was... terrible of me to take advantage."

"I... I am not offended," he said awkwardly.

"Perhaps you are not, but I am. My behavior was inexcusable." Hugging herself, she said, "Were it I who lay helpless and you who... took liberties, I would slay you for it."

"I do not consider a kiss when I am awake 'taking liberties,'" he said.

"Well, you are a man, and men do not care who or what...," she snapped, then checked herself. "Forgive me. I am at fault, not you."

"Speak no more of it," Ashtu said. "It was innocent enough. Not like the vision."

She narrowed her eyes. "What did you see?"

He mentally cursed his stupid tongue for continuing to wag instead of going to ground when it had the chance. Wincing, he hurriedly replied, "I saw us embracing."

"That is not so bad." She looked relieved.

"We were... unclothed, and it was clear what we had just done," he said. He silently thanked Boethia's rage against his god, in that his dark skin spared the woman from seeing him blush.

Lydia's eyebrows shot up, and she looked at him with shock. "We... are you certain?"

"It was only a dream," Ashtu replied dismissively. "I am not such a fool..."

"No, of course not," Lydia interrupted, her cheeks flaming now. "We are in the center of Her Eye. I think Mara watches." She laughed, embarrassed. "There is a temple in Riften. Perhaps we should... tell Her that Her assistance is not necessary."

He looked away, the conversation becoming increasingly uncomfortable. "I doubt it will be needed. You have only to look at my face, and you will come to your senses."

"Ashtu," she said quietly, "I _am_ looking."


	9. A Choice of Provender

"It is this place," Ashtulagal growled, looking away. "We will both think more clearly when we leave." He began to rise, but staggered and fell back.

"You must rest, my Thane," Lydia admonished sternly. "Lie quiet. We are safe here."

"Hmph," he snorted, closing his eyes. "Safe from all but ourselves."

"I promise not to touch you anymore," she said coldly.

"I know why you do," the Orc snarled. "You are bewitched. It will pass."

"And you are so much stronger than I, that you can resist such... bewitchment, as you call it?"

His eyes flared open and he glared at her. "Were I not poisoned, I would show you how much I _cannot_." He grimaced and looked away. "And you would slay me, as you should."

She hugged her knees and stared at the still surface of the pond. "You are not... the beast I thought you to be."

"Stop," he snapped. "You speak Mara's words, not your own."

"I do not..."

"Enough!" he roared.

Lydia spoke no more. Ashtu's brow was furrowed, as if he were deeply troubled. She wondered what was going through his mind, what thoughts were his own, or those inspired by the divine. Just as she worried about the thoughts plaguing _her._

By morning, Ashtu had regained enough of his strength to resume. They couldn't leave the intrusive glare of Mara's Eye fast enough.

Snow had begun to fall the previous day, and was now coming down much harder. Both travelers squinted into the flurries to ensure they did not lose sight of the road beneath their feet. The frigid wind bit through their armor; even running did not warm them enough. They sighed with relief when the road bent eastward and they caught a glimpse of the stone walls surrounding Windhelm in the distance.

"Mind yourself, sneak-thief," a guard snarled as they walked along the uneven causeway to the front gates. "I have my eyes upon you."

Ashtu glared hotly at the guard for his insult, but said nothing. Lydia was stunned; she could see nothing about the Orc that would lead one to believe he was a criminal, and that was definitely _not_ Mara talking. Yet, for an Orsimer to openly display a bow, and wear leather armor, when all would expect steel and a great axe or hammer... Perhaps his less threatening differences drew more attention than if he stormed into the city bellowing a war cry.

Once past the gates, they made inquiries, and eventually found their way to the marketplace. Lydia wandered about while Ashtu conducted some business. Hard by the provisioner's booth was an apothecary called the White Phial, and she slipped inside out of the wind.

"Ah, a customer!" the Altmer behind the counter crowed. "How may I serve a brave lass like yourself, out and about on such a miserable day?"

"Good morrow to you," she replied. "I seek a remedy for... a friend. He was poisoned, and though he recovers, his full strength is yet beyond his reach."

"Hmmm," the Elf said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. "There are many poisons used by the bandits and thugs in Eastmarch Hold. Do you still have the blade that struck him?"

"Yes, I have it here," she said, gingerly removing the cloth-wrapped dagger and handing it over. The alchemist carefully peeled the fabric open, then froze. He shot Lydia a terrified look.

"Where did you get this?" he hissed, hastily covering the weapon once more.

Lydia leaned closer and lowered her voice. "You know exactly where. I would consider it a kindness if you told me what you know of the owner."

"I do not know _anything_!" he snarled in an undertone. "Get out of my shop. _Now_."

"Not without an antidote, if you would be so kind," she growled, sliding the wrapped blade back into her pack. "I _might_ forget that we spoke."

He stared at her for several moments, taking her measure, then began gathering ingredients. His hands shook as he mixed a potion. "This will counter many of... _their_ concoctions. Now leave. Our business is done."

"Your servant, sir," she said, bowing as she left with the vial.

After the warmth of the shop, the chill wind roaring through the marketplace hit her hard, and she shivered. Across the way, she could see Ashtu negotiating with an Altmer merchant over the necromancer's robes they had acquired days ago, along with other trinkets and jewels he'd picked up along the way. Her head tilted to the side as she watched them. It did not appear they were arguing over price so much as sharing stories. The wind in her ears stole their voices, but she could plainly see how the woman's face lit up, how her eyes shone.

Lydia suddenly realized a hot flame burned in her gut, her breath came in furious gasps, and her hand was on the hilt of a dagger she wore at her hip. Biting her lip, she slowly lowered her hand, and took several deep breaths. Shaking her head, she gathered her forces and approached them.

"Thane Ashtulagal," she said, standing at his side. She cast a haughty look at the other woman. The Altmer returned her glare with a chilly expression.

"Niranye informs me the Candlehearth Inn has the best mead in Eastmarch," Ashtu told her. His face was relaxed for the first time since she'd met him. "I shall have to fetch a bottle for my da. _He_ will be the judge of that, I am afraid." He grinned at the merchant, who lowered her gaze and smiled fetchingly.

Lydia's eyes narrowed. "Not just a merchant, but an expert in drink and inns, I see."

Niranye's brow arched. "Not all of us wield the swords we sell. Some choose gentler paths."

"Hmm, 'gentler paths' leading to inns, and the warm comforts therein?"

"Much more satisfying than sleeping on the cold ground, with nothing but the hilt of a sword to comfort you," Niranye smirked. Turning to the Orsimer, she said, "You have traveled far, Ashtu. I am certain you would embrace the bounty of a warm bed."

"Such _conveniences_ are appreciated," Lydia said with a barely veiled sneer, "yet my Thane is already recovering from _one_ bit of poison in his blood."

"And you are his housecarl, who allowed such a thing?" the Altmer challenged. "Or was it your own _vessel_ that applied the contagion?"

Ashtu's brow furrowed, and his eyes flicked between the women with uncertainty.

"The details are not clear, of course," Lydia said loftily. "I believe that the bearer of such ill tidings was a _mer_ of _some_ kind." Shrugging, she said with a weary sigh, "It is difficult to defend oneself against so desperate a suit by one whose blood runs hot, even out of season."

Niranye's lips pursed with barely suppressed fury. _"Hot_ blood is a comfort on a cold night. Much better than _cold_ blood on a warm night."

"He is not bereft of comforts, I assure you," Lydia replied smoothly. "Come, _my_ _Thane_ , let us go to this Inn and sample the mead. You will be the judge of whether the offerings of Windhelm surpass those of Whiterun." Taking his elbow, she steered him away.

"What was that about?" he said quietly as they left the marketplace.

"Nothing whatever," Lydia answered. "Certainly nothing to concern yourself with."

* * *

At a table in the corner, Lydia calmly sipped the watered-down mead for which the Candlehearth Inn was unjustifiably famous. As she suspected. The Orc's lip curled more than usual upon sampling the vile drink, and set it aside. "I'll not be sending _that_ to my da; he'd disown me."

"Tis better than a poke in the eye," Lydia said dryly, "but not by much." Ashtu chuckled. "You might change your mind after you drink this," she said, handing him the vial of antidote. "I saw the alchemist put skeever hide in it."

"I hope you paid him well," Ashtu replied as he uncorked and drank the potion.

"He was satisfied. How do you feel?"

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Better. Much less weak." Nodding, he said, "I should be well enough by morning, I think."

"Good," she replied. "We should depart as soon as we may. I suspect we won't get very far in our inquiries here." She briefly described her exchange with the alchemist.

"Do you think this _mer_ will inform the Brotherhood of their failure?" Ashtu asked in an undertone.

"I don't know. He seemed terrified. Unless he has some... unpaid debt, I doubt he will seek them out even with such a valuable bit of gossip as this." Taking another drink and blanching, Lydia said, "So how did your bartering go? Did you come out ahead?"

"We have warm clothing to wear now," he said. "I hope what I bought fits you. Niranye looked about your size, and selected things by her measure."

"She certainly took the measure of _you_ ," Lydia snapped sourly.

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?" he asked, frowning.

"Really, Ashtu, you are such a simpleton," she said wearily. "Must I spell it out?"

"Apparently so," he replied. "I am just an Orc, after all." His expression was accusatory.

Lydia narrowed her eyes at him. "No, you are a _man_. And you do not know women."

"I have been with my fair share," he retorted defensively.

She rolled her eyes and sat back in the chair. "Yet you do not recognize when a woman seeks to bed you, you stupid man."

He started, mouth hanging open. "Niranye?" he asked, incredulous.

"The very one," she said, lifting her tankard in a toast before downing another mouthful. It wasn't so bad after awhile. Shame it took half a bottle to get to that point. "Looked at you like you were a feast of flesh worthy of a queen."

He grunted a laugh. "It is not stupidity. It is not an expression I see. I did not recognize it."

"Must have been a long time since you left your village, then," Lydia said.

Frowning, the Orc tilted his head slightly. "Ten years. Why?"

"I am certain you caught a few eyes while among your own," she replied, taking another long drink. "Broke a few hearts, I imagine. Likely angered a few fathers. You are most fortunate I am here to save you from such things," she said. "It is, after all, my duty."

"I will thank you to be less vigilant," he growled sullenly. "I did not 'catch' as many eyes as you think." Grimacing in anticipation, he tossed back a good portion of the mead from his own tankard. "Mauloch's blood, this is foul."

"I am certain her last lover said the same," Lydia muttered.

Ashtu was taking another drink, and spit the contents across the table, thankfully missing his housecarl. He laughed loudly, thumping the table with his hand. Pointing at Lydia, he said, "You are jealous, woman. _That_ I can see."

"I am nothing of the sort," she retorted, glaring at him with disgust. "We have things to do, places to go. No time for frivolities with ragged tradeswomen."

He chuckled and shook his head. Catching the barman's eye, he gestured for another bottle. "Now that I think on it, I believe you said I was to judge whether Whiterun or Windhelm offered the finer fare. How am I to do so if you chase off the competition?" He raised his eyebrows challengingly as he poured out the new bottle into their tankards.

"Oh, you are such a pig," Lydia snarled, grabbing hers roughly and sloshing some of the contents on the floor. "Go on, then. Scamper off to the woman and have a taste of Eastmarch Hold's blighted victuals. Be sure to visit the White Phial for a curative when you finish your meal." She took a large swallow of the mead and wiped her mouth on the back of her arm. "And stop grinning at me. You look a fool."

"You are drunk," he observed.

"So are you."

"That I am." Chuckling, he drank some more. "I begin to see the quality of this mead. I shall have to send some to da after all. With the warning that it may take a few bottles before its flavor becomes less repellent, of course."

"Your da likes his drink, does he?"

"He brews his own," Ashtu said easily, leaning back comfortably in the chair. "Always interested in how other meads taste. Gives him ideas for new flavors. My uncle used to call him a kitchenmaid, the way he bends over his kettles and worries over every batch."

"So... he is not a warrior?" Lydia asked, relieved at the change of subject. She wasn't so far gone yet that the topic they'd been on didn't make her blush.

"Not all Orsimer are," he replied. "Da was a hunter, until he got too old. Don't ever tell him he cannot bring back his fair share for the village, though. I made that mistake once as a lad, and he made me regret it."

"What did he do?"

"Tanned my hide," Ashtu said ruefully. "Had to cut my own switch, too. You learn quickly not to skimp on the stick that beats you. Da knew what he was looking for, and if you did not bring it to him, he'd find his own." He shuddered, apparently remembering a time when he'd skimped.

"So he taught you to hunt, did he?"

"Aye," the Orc nodded. "I never wanted to do anything else, until my feet hit the road."

"What road?" Lydia leaned forward and rested her chin on her hand, elbow on the table. She'd reached that pleasantly relaxed state, his deep voice lulling her gently.

"Any road," he shrugged. "Roads leading to new places, mostly. I followed one to a cave and got lost inside once, but I didn't mind. There were so many things to see. When I came out, half the village was looking for me. Da thought I'd been taken by another clan that was threatening our holdings at the time, and gave me a good talking to about running off alone."

"Did you cut a good switch for that 'talk'?" she asked, grinning.

"Not good enough," he chuckled.

"I wonder, do you bear scars from such treatment?" she asked thoughtfully.

"Some," he acknowledged, draining his tankard. "Not in a place I care to display."

"So modest," she murmured. A half smile curved her mouth. "I knew a man once who had many scars, and he was not one to hide them."

"I do not hide my battle scars," Ashtu replied.

"I see none."

"I still wear my armor." Setting the tankard down on the table, he leaned back and drew a finger across his torso from the breastbone down to the left over his ribs, nearly to his hip. "My first bear was a mother with a new cub. When the healer finished sewing me back together, da saw to my schooling on which beasts were fair game and which were not."

"Did your da... beat you often?"

Ashtu snorted. "Not often. But I needed a firm hand as a boy."

"What became of the cub?"

Chuckling, the Orc pointed to the chunk missing from his ear. "Didn't much like his new 'mother.'"

"My mother saw to my... schooling," Lydia grimaced. "She wanted her daughter to be a proper lady. Whenever I could, I went with my father and brother. I did not like spending time with her." Frowning, she took a long drink. "She had a maidservant. A Khajiit. The beastly girl hooked her on skooma for her headaches. I think the skooma made them worse, but she swore by it, and of course it is a monstrous thing to give up once it takes hold." Her brow furrowed, and she topped off her tankard with the remainder of the mead. "I was small. Maybe eight or nine winters old when it killed her. Not the skooma. Her servant could not appease her with refined moon sugar one day, and brought it raw. It was... an ugly death. My father was so distraught... so _furious_... He slew that Khajiit girl." She took a quick drink. "I had always liked her, but for that one thing. I suppose she did what she was told to do. They are not treated well, as servants. Always looked upon as though they pocket valuables wherever they go. I never, _ever_ saw her so much as slip a spoon up her sleeve. After she was dead, father searched her rooms. There was so little there... she had almost nothing to call her own." Unexpectedly, Lydia's throat closed, and tears spilled from her eyes. She'd never wept for the Khajiit; her grief had been entirely for her mother at the time. "Her name was Kesha. She told such... stories." Laughing tightly through her tears, Lydia squeezed her eyes shut. "Such stories."

She didn't look up when she felt Ashtu's hand cover hers on the table. "We should go to our rooms, I think," he said softly. "It is late."

Nodding, Lydia rose. Without thinking, she slipped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek to his shoulder. His arms encircled her firmly, without hesitation. She closed her eyes as he stroked her hair.

Awkwardly, Lydia backed away from him and roughly wiped the tears from her face. She couldn't look at him as she hastened up the stairs to her room.


	10. The Curse of the Dragonborn

The walls were thin enough that Ashtu could hear Lydia's muffled weeping in the room next to his. Lying on his bed, he stared at the ceiling. Her embrace had sobered him more effectively than a dip in an ice-cold river. The feel of her in his arms inflamed him like a forge fire. Were he certain that Mara's curse was no longer affecting the woman, he might consider going to comfort her. But she continued to show signs, and he did not wish to take advantage.

His da had told him, many years before, that he must never take a woman in any manner but love. That he had done so too often without it weighed heavily on him, and was not something he wanted his da to know of. Ashtu could soften his shame as much as he liked by the reminder that none of his past lovers were unwilling, but the fact remained that he had not loved them, and as far as he knew, they felt the same.

Were he to go to Lydia now, he suspected how it would end. While the thought sent ripples of longing through his body, it disgusted him as well. She did not love him. _Could_ not love him. What did his own feelings matter?

He winced, and shuddered. In that moment when she wept for a long dead Khajiit, he knew. It was terrifying, the strength of it. The pain of it. He felt his heart would burst. There was nothing pleasant about it.

He loved her. Malacath curse his soul, but he did.

* * *

"Well?"

Lydia finished buckling her armor over the new woolens Ashtu had purchased and shrugged. "They will serve." He was likewise layered for warmth.

They were in Lydia's room. She began sorting her things, stuffing spare clothing into her pack with little concern in preparation for their departure. They spoke in subdued voices, partially due to the after-effects of the sour mead, but also for the conversations of the previous night. Ashtu did not seek to revisit either her Divine-induced jealousy or the fate of Kesha. Neither were comfortable subjects in the sober morning light.

"Are you certain you do not wish to see the Jarl?" the Orc asked.

Straightening, Lydia's face became troubled. "While you were lying abed this morning, I went to the marketplace. There was... unfinished business I wished to attend to."

"Not Niranye, I hope," he asked, narrowing his eyes.

"No," she replied with a soft chuckle. "My behavior was...," she said, and paused to glance at him with an uncertain smile. "I seem to say that a lot, since vowing to serve you. I wonder whether you are a bad influence on me."

"I have never been accused of leading others into wickedness," he asserted. "What was your business in the market?"

"I wanted to know if that apothecary would betray you. I found him gone, the shop boarded up. None knew where he went or why. I found this curious, and made discreet inquiries. I learned nothing more of him, but a lot more than I cared to about Windhelm."

"What did you learn?"

She looked away uncomfortably. "You may not have driven me to wickedness, but you have opened my eyes in other ways. I found a section of this city that houses Dunmer, and not by their own choice. It is called the Gray Quarter. The Dunmer are treated unkindly here, as are the Argonians. They are sequestered on the waterfront. I spoke with a few, and all agreed that Ulfric turns a blind eye to their suffering, even allowing the guards to abuse them with little cause."

"What did you think of this?" Ashtu asked quietly.

She did not answer right away, preferring to examine her dagger thoughtfully. "There is a part of me... that hears my father's words. He would say... the _mer_ deserve such treatment. _Any_ _mer_ ; it would not matter to him. He would cite the White-Gold Concordat as proof. Of the Argonians, he would say they are less than human, and so not worthy of consideration. He would disdain you, as well, and yet you... While I do not believe he would admire you, I do not wish to think he would despise you."

"But he would," Ashtu said evenly.

"Aye," she conceded, her cheeks coloring with shame. "He would."

"What do _you_ think?"

A slight smile appeared on her face. "Do you seek admiring words, Thane Ashtulagal?"

He looked away, embarrassed. "No." Straightening, he said firmly. "If you do not wish an audience with the Jarl, we should go while we have daylight."

"I will follow where you lead, my Thane," Lydia replied.

* * *

As they strode down the causeway, past the stables to the road, a man ran up to them.

"Are you Ashtulagal?" he asked.

Ashtu glanced at Lydia. "I am Ashtulagal. What business have you with me?"

"I carry a message for you," the man said breathlessly. "One moment." He fished about in a bag hanging off his shoulder. "Ah, here we are."

Accepting the sealed parchment, the Orc thanked the man uneasily. The courier bade them farewell and departed.

"What does it say?" Lydia asked at his shoulder.

Her nearness unsettled him, but he forced such treacherous thoughts away. Breaking the wax seal, he opened the note.

_You caused a bit of a stir in Whiterun when you demonstrated the power of your Thu'um. Not everyone is anxious for the return of the Dragonborn._

_I for one desire to see you grow and develop your talents. Skyrim needs a true hero these days._

_You should turn your attention to Northwind Summit. I understand it holds a mysterious source of power that can only be unlocked by the Dragonborn._

Ashtu crumpled the note and cast it furiously to the ground. "Hero. _Pah_." He spat on the note. "If I wished renown, I would have stayed in my own village and put myself to good use there."

"Does a hunter garner such praise?"

"No," he grumbled sullenly, "nor does he seek it. We bring food to fill bellies, hides to clothe our people. If the village survives a winter with few losses, we consider that reward enough." Ashtu headed for the road once more.

"Yet you left," Lydia said, matching his strides. "Did you seek something else?"

"Change," he replied. "Other lands, other people. Things I had never seen before." He shrugged. "I sought many things."

"You have certainly found a few," Lydia answered with a light chuckle.

"Some not to my liking," he replied. "Others more agreeable..." He hastily clamped down on anything more that may spew forth from that senseless hole he called a mouth. His da always _did_ say his tongue ran without thought.

They continued in silence, and found that once out of sight of Windhelm on the road south toward Riften, the air began to grow warmer. Off to the west, they could see clouds of mist upon the ground, and in some places towers of steam from bubbling pools. Fascinated, the Orc headed off in that direction. Lydia made no comment, and simply followed in his wake.

The hot springs stretched far and wide, the landscape dotted with pools, the hills split by steaming fissures. Ashtu breathed in the sulfurous air and choked. Quite suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck bristled, and he jerked his head up sharply.

"What is the matter?" Lydia asked warily.

"I am... not certain," he said slowly, looking around. The pools seemed deserted, if the presence of other folk was the cause of his discomfort. Then he heard it: the flapping of great wings.

Even as he recognized the hated sound, a roar tore the silence asunder. "Dragon!" Ashtu cried, and immediately drew his bow. It was circling above, had undoubtedly spotted them and was either taunting them into terror or looking for an opportunity to strike. Ashtu didn't give it an opening.

Nocking arrow after arrow, the Orsimer furiously shot the scaly beast on the run as he raced for cover. Most of his shots missed, but a few struck home, and the dragon roared in fury. Ashtu lost sight of Lydia, but it was no matter: as had happened at the watchtower, the beast only had eyes for him. He used poisons he'd acquired in Whiterun to hinder and paralyze the dragon and bring it to earth. Once down, he finally saw Lydia as she attacked the dragon with her two-handed sword.

Her blows gained unwanted attention from the dragon, and it turned on her. Throwing down his bow, Ashtu drew his sword and axe and attacked the dragon's flank.

With a deadly foe on either side, the dragon launched itself into the sky, its scream of rage deafening. Ashtu retrieved his bow and landed a few more arrows before the dragon had flown out of range.

It did not keep its distance, however. Turning a broad circle in the sky, the dragon swooped down to land once more, breathing a tremendous gout of flame upon them. Ashtu shoved Lydia to one side, then dove to the other to avoid the worst of the beast's breath. Singed, he fired off a few more shots before the dragon's tail swept his feet out from under him, and he landed heavily flat on his back.

Lydia now had the dragon's full attention, and with a few reckless swipes managed to cleave its tongue and bloody its face before it could retaliate. The dragon bellowed loud enough to shake the earth beneath their feet, and shook its head, spraying blood everywhere. Ashtu leaped up and drew a dagger he kept at his hip. Running up on the beast's flank once again, he buried the blade into its ribcage.

Again, the dragon turned on him, this time striking his shoulder sharply with its swiveling head. He felt the crunch of bone, and his arm hung limply at his side.

It came from him without warning, without intention. Bereft of other weapons, his tusks undoubtedly useless against such a beast, the Orc Shouted.

" _Fus_!"

It was a weak blow upon the dragon, but staggered it slightly and gave it pause. The moment of surprise and uncertainty was all Lydia needed. She rose up and drove her sword into the dragon's torso to the hilt.

With a shuddering cry, the dragon collapsed in a thunderous heap between them, twitching for a moment before expiring. Ashtu sank to his knees, holding his arm. Not since Whiterun had he used the _Thu'um_ , and it left him feeling drained, unclean.

Lydia skirted the dragon's carcass and knelt at his side. She hastily cast her strongest healing spell, mending his shoulder. Then the corpse burst into flame.

Remembering the watchtower, Ashtu suddenly flew into a panic, and scuttled back away from the dragon.

"No!" he cried, trying to gain his feet on the moisture-slicked rocks of the hot springs, and failing. He was scrabbling away on his hands and knees when the dragon's soul erupted from the carcass and reached for him. Ashtu froze when the tendrils of energy struck him, and his body shook violently as it absorbed the soul. Sweat poured down his face, his chest heaved, his neck muscles strained. The soul wrapped itself around him, flowed over his body like the hands of a violator seeking entrance, and he helpless to resist.

It seemed to last hours, but was over in moments, and the Orsimer collapsed. He felt soiled, unclean, befouled. The need to cleanse himself was so strong, no other thought entered his mind. He rose and tore viciously at his leathers, leaving a trail of armor, woolens, scabbards, quiver, and packs behind him on his way to the nearest pool.

"Ashtu, what are you doing?" Lydia cried. He didn't care that she was near, didn't care whether displaying his body so thoroughly might offend her. Discarding his last shred of underclothes, he waded into the hot pool and submerged himself completely.

The stench of sulfur was great, but less offensive to him than what had just crawled all over his skin. Coming up for air, he vigorously scrubbed his flesh raw with a chunk of pumice.

"Ashtu."

He did not wish to hear her tell him it was all right, the dragon was dead, the threat removed. He did not want to be told that this was what he _was_ now, that his body was no longer his own, nor was his destiny. If anyone, _anyone_ were to call him 'hero' now, he would slay them.

"Ashtu, look at me."

Could he scrub the outside hard enough to rid the inside of this stain? Blood began to seep from his abused flesh as he tried.

" _Ashtu_!"

The tone of her voice startled the Orc, and he finally stopped what he was doing to look at her.

"You are bleeding, my Thane," she said gently. "Come out before you make it worse."

Reason slowly returned to him, and he hung his head. "You must think me a fool."

"Only if you do worse harm to yourself. Come out, please."

"I am... unclothed," he muttered, finally embarrassed.

"You have nothing I have not already seen," she said.

Wincing, he slowly climbed out, taking care to shield himself with his hands. When he was able to raise his eyes, he found her standing before him stiffly, his breeches held out before her. He could not look at her face as he struggled to pull his pants on over his damp skin.

"I know you despise this," she said as he dressed. "I confess I... I did not witness the attack at the watchtower. I did not know what... happens when a dragon is slain and you are present."

"It is a defilement," he growled bitterly. "I am helpless. I cannot stop it from happening."

She nodded. "That is... what it looked like. I am sorry, Ashtu. I truly am. When you are ready to see the Greybeards, I will accompany you. Between us, perhaps we can... persuade them to free you of this curse."

"Thank you, Lydia."


	11. Not Just a Convenience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Locations are Bonestrewn Crest, then Mistwatch.

Her eyes refused to leave him as he strode up the path from the hot springs, climbing higher and higher up the peak near where the dragon attacked. Brow furrowed in worry, she wondered if he would do more mischief to himself. When Lydia was called to Rorikstead to deal with a pack of bandits harassing the little hamlet, one of the complaints was assaults upon the women there. She'd meted out the Jarl's justice swiftly and completely before returning to Whiterun, it was true, yet she now recalled one of those women with startling clarity.

She'd rubbed her skin raw to the point of bleeding, trying to cleanse the man's filth from her body. It seemed she did not believe her efforts sufficient, and kept on until her father was obliged to bandage her hands lest she use her nails to claw the flesh from her bones. Lydia now wondered what became of her.

Ashtu behaved in the same way, it seemed. As if absorption of the dragon's soul was no less than a brutal violation. He'd looked... helpless. Horrified. Straining to escape and unable to. She'd felt compelled to help him, but was frozen in shock and hadn't known what to do.

And now he was utterly reckless, stomping up to the dragon's nest without a single effort at concealment, as he would have done before. He didn't even draw his weapon. The Orc hadn't said a word beyond a muttered suggestion that they see if the beast had young.

At the top of the peak, Lydia watched him scan the plateau. It was cleared of all debris save the bones of whatever creatures the dragon had feasted upon last. A strange curved wall stood there, and he seemed reluctantly drawn to it.

"What is that?" she asked, pointing.

"It is... I have only seen one," he growled. "If I approach, it will force a _Thu'um_ into my mind."

"Avoid it, then."

"I cannot," he snarled, his feet dragging him forward. "It... calls me."

She watched helplessly as Ashtu staggered into the insidiously welcoming curve of the wall, stiffening, his eyes opening wide and sightless as energies like those from the dragon stretched their fingers out to grasp him. Again, his body was enveloped and caressed by the whispering tendrils of the foul magics. His hands balled into fists, yet his arms were clamped firmly to his sides. In the Orc's paralysis, he grit his teeth and trembled.

A rumbling voice suddenly sounded the word _Fo_ , thundering off the mountains for what seemed miles around. She was shocked to realize it was Ashtu, speaking a new Shout. The very air seemed to be left empty when the echo of the _Thu'um_ faded to nothing.

Once released, his knees gave way, and he dropped. On hands and knees, his head hanging in defeat, Ashtu wept.

In the silence, her boots crunched deafeningly on the bone-strewn earth as she slowly approached him.

"Ashtu," she whispered so not to startle him. She slowly knelt beside him. He roughly dragged his hand across his eyes, trying to hide his outburst.

"You called me child, before," he said shakily. "I weep as one." He forced a laugh at himself.

"No, you are not a child. You are a man grown," she replied quietly, shaking her head. "This is an evil thing. The stories do not say enough. We are told it is a blessing, a divine gift. Yet I see it is not." She looked at his profile, the anguish on his face. "I wonder if it would have slept on, had you not come to Skyrim."

"Perhaps," he said. He sounded drained, lifeless. "What if the dragons came to Hammerfell? Would it have woken then? Did _they_ come to Skyrim seeking _me_ , or was I sent here to find _them_?"

"We cannot know the will of the Divines," Lydia said with a sigh. "Come. We should leave. There are no young for you to take vengeance upon, and I would rather be well away from this place when night falls."

Nodding, Ashtu rose stiffly, as did Lydia. Again, she felt that strong pull toward him, as she had before arriving at Windhelm, and again at the Inn, and barely resisted it. Turning abruptly, she aimed purposefully for the path they'd taken up, and began a brisk descent.

If he touched her now, she was certain to fall into his arms. She could not even blame Mara for this; the Divine goddess's Eye was miles away. When had the repulsive creature whose brutish face so offended her eyes... become Ashtu? Not even Ashtu the Foul, or Beast-Mouth, or any number of other things she'd called him in her ignorance. Just... Ashtu. She saw him in her mind's eye, unclothed as he entered the pool, and a shiver ran through her. He was... beautiful.

Lydia vigorously shook herself. Riften. They must focus on making it to Riften. Preferably in one piece.

 _I did not catch as many eyes as you think_ , he'd said at the Inn.

 _You have caught mine,_ she thought with dismay.

* * *

"What is this place?" she asked, not expecting an answer.

"I do not know," Ashtu replied, squinting against the sun. The abandoned fortress was largely a crumbling ruin, not far from where they'd slain the dragon, and was like so many others dotting the landscape. There were a few towers still intact, as well as sturdy walls. Three figures could be seen on the battlements, watching for threats. They could not see the Orsimer and the Nord in the underbrush, shielded by several trees not far from the front gate.

"I begin to see that any ruin with people in it is manned by bandits," Lydia whispered wryly. She shared an amused glance with Ashtu as she eased her sword from its sheathe. He strung his bow and readied an arrow.

In the shadows of the open gateway, two figures stood, one large and leaning lazily against the wall. The other appeared engrossed in cleaning his nails with the tip of a dagger. The Orc's arrow interrupted his grooming with finality.

When the man fell with an arrow through the neck, the lazy figure separated swiftly from the wall and stormed into the light. Lydia gasped with surprise, for he was an Orsimer. Firming her mouth grimly, she rushed to meet him. They clashed loudly, and for a moment, her face was inches from his as they strove against one another. The eyes of the enraged Orc were coldly yellow, yet the whites were bloodshot, and so fierce she knew she would see those eyes in her dreams for some time to come. She could see the twitch of his lip as Ashtu's arrows found their marks, yet the bandit was barely fazed. He shoved her backwards and swung his battleaxe wide, catching her across the belly. Her armor deflected the blade, but did not reduce the impact, and she was staggered. Heaving her own weapon up, she barely blocked his follow-through.

"No one bests an Orc!" her adversary roared, then pressed the attack even harder. The weight of his axe was made all the heavier by the strength of his swings, and she began losing ground. Another swipe across her chest made her gasp for breath. Though she could see Ashtu's arrows striking home, and the Orc bandit seemed a pincushion, he was barely slowed. When he caught her a blow down one arm, laying her flesh open so deeply she would likely see bone, Lydia fell back from him completely. Her weapon dropped from her numb hands, and she knew fear.

Clutching her wounded arm, she waited helplessly as the Orc bandit bellowed a war cry and charged, the battleaxe held high over his head for the crushing death blow to come. Then Ashtu was there, intercepting the other Orc in a fury, his sword and axe crossed to catch the descending battleaxe. Ashtu forced the battleaxe to the side, then kicked the bandit in the midsection, knocking him off-balance.

Lydia sank to her knees as the Orcs battled, neither giving ground. Hand shaking, she cast her healing spell, binding muscle, knitting flesh, until there was only a thin scar remaining. Yet she felt faint from blood loss, and could not rise.

They seemed evenly matched, and she wondered which would prevail. Forcing herself to her feet, she staggered to her fallen weapon and clumsily swung toward the bandit, intent on tipping the scales in Ashtu's favor. Her blade struck his forearm, checking his swing, and giving Ashtu enough of an opening to drive his sword into the Orc's thinly-armored gut.

Finally, the multiple injuries cut through the bandit's berserk fog, and he stumbled to his knees. With a shudder, he fell face down on the ground, his dying breath rattling noisily from his lungs.

Turning swiftly to Lydia, Ashtu grabbed her shoulders, his eyes wide and fierce. "Are you well?" he growled, his body trembling from the remains of battle fury.

"Yes, I...," she began, but her words were stifled by the brutal kiss he bestowed. He pushed her up against a tree, out of sight of the walls. She felt his hands all over her body. The Orc's mouth hungrily, fiercely plundered hers as his fingers tore at the buckles of her armor. She could feel his tusks pressed hard against the corners of her mouth.

Lydia found her own hands tearing at his leathers, yanking straps free. No better sense invaded this time, as it had before. Not even the cold bite of the air upon her naked breasts, or the feel of his mouth upon them, woke her from this blissful dream. She wanted no part of propriety or shame now.

Once more, he was kissing her, his hands roughly stroking her hips and buttocks, laid bare by his determination. She didn't wait for further urging, and lifted one leg up to hook his waist, opening herself, inviting him to take what was offered. Ashtu groaned, grabbing her leg to hold it up, then rammed home. Lydia cried out, her head falling back against the tree trunk.

Reason seemed to return to Ashtu, for he faltered, and said unsteadily, "I... forgive me, I shouldn't..."

"If you stop now, I _shan't_ forgive you!" Lydia gasped, embracing him with a vice-like grip. She held his fevered eyes with her own. Swallowing hard, he slowed for a moment, burying himself inside her. Such heat as she had never felt welled up from her center. A long, low moan escaped her. His mouth found hers again, and their tongues danced. As their shared passion reached a peak, and his hips thrust forcefully and swiftly, her supporting leg weakened, and she nearly collapsed but for her arms about him holding her up. Then a wave of pleasure roared through her, from her center to the top of her head, leaving her cheeks flushed, her own hips rolling to meet his.

The Orc's body shuddered and convulsed as he spent himself. She trembled in the wake of her own climax. Separating reluctantly, they righted themselves and donned the discarded pieces of their armor in awkward silence.

When she looked at him, his eyes were cast down, and he still trembled. Lydia desperately wanted to sit down for a moment, and regain her composure, but settled for leaning against the tree. Glancing briefly at her, Ashtu said, "I did not mean to..."

"Stop. Say nothing." He winced, but obeyed. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Lydia said quietly, "I think... we should, perhaps, save any... talk of this... for camp. Now is most assuredly not the time." Turning, she regarded the keep not many yards from where they'd... How had their activities gone unnoticed so close to the walls? Shaking herself, she continued, "You likely want to see what is inside, and I have a duty to defend against bandits. We should proceed with caution." The Orsimer nodded stiffly.

The answer to Lydia's unvoiced question became obvious soon enough. Only three bandits manned the battlements, apparently trusting the gate's defense to the two they'd killed. These three were spaced far apart, so the nearest to their position was well out of earshot of the gate, but not out of bowshot. Ashtu mastered himself and brought down the nearest bandit as cleanly as he had the first. The other two were just as easily dispatched.

Mounting the walls, they found the main tower could only be reached by a drawbridge operated by a lever. Ashtu pulled the handle, and the rickety wooden bridge clattered into place. She followed the Thane as he cautiously advanced to the main tower.

Ashtu seemed to have regained his wariness as he carefully eased open the door to the tower. The first floor was empty but for a frightened man cowering in a small room at the foot of wide stone steps leading upwards.

"Thank the Nine you are not among them!" he cried with relief as they suspiciously approached.

"Among who?" Ashtu asked.

"The bandits," the man explained. "There is a pack of them in this fortress. I heard they were holding common folk for ransom, and I thought..." He faltered and swallowed hard. "My wife has been missing for months. I thought she might be here."

"Who are you?" the Orc asked.

"I am Christer. My wife is Fjola," he explained. "I would be grateful if you could look for her. I am no match for these ruffians, yet you appear battle-hardened."

Lydia found her eyes darting to Ashtu's midsection, and a blush colored her cheeks. Christer glanced at her curiously.

"We will seek her out," the Nord woman assured him hastily. "If she is within, we will find her."

"I cannot thank you enough," Christer replied. "You will know her by her wedding band. It is silver."

Taking their leave, Lydia and Ashtu headed up the dark-shrouded stairs. Soon enough, the sounds of slippered feet could be heard.

Gesturing for her to retreat further into the shadows, Ashtu dropped to a crouch and slowly climbed higher. A man appeared silhouetted by the torchlight, then a woman in black mage robes appeared. The Orc nocked an arrow and let fly towards the man.

The man did not stay down, or dead, for long. The robed woman swiftly raised him to fight alongside her. Infuriated by this, Ashtu snarled a curse and loosed an arrow at the woman this time. She swiftly conjured a wall of shimmering, protective magic to shield herself. Lydia took advantage of the mage's distraction and charged into her. The Nord slammed into the necromancer so hard, the woman was flung sideways into the wall. With one great over-handed swing, Lydia slew the woman before she could regain her feet.

They stopped for a moment to catch their breaths, and avoid one another's gaze. Lydia had no idea how to speak with him now. That moment of weakness hung between them like a millstone. She watched him rifle the bandits' pockets, triumphantly holding up a key from the caster's robes, and felt such profound regret she nearly wept.

It should have been different. There should have been a quiet room at a warm inn, a comfortable bed, and no threats so near they were obliged to rush. They should have taken their time, should have savored every touch.

He should have loved her, as she did him.

She grimaced and steeled herself as she fell in behind the Orsimer, following his ascent to the next level. On the landing further up, they discovered an empty cell.

"Not many captives," Ashtu commented in an undertone. "Better be more to this place."

"Are you desperate to save his wife, or avoid...," she began, then stopped herself. He shot her a look she could not read in the dim light. "There is a ladder," she said quietly, pointing toward the wall. Ashtu held her gaze for a moment longer, then turned away. She watched him climb the ladder. If she would not be enjoying the feel of him again, at least she could enjoy watching his body move, she mused.

The trapdoor at the top of the ladder opened with the key Ashtu found, and they were soon on a balcony overlooking the courtyard. The sun was lower in the sky now, descending toward dusk. No one was about, so they hastened to the western tower. Again, the key granted them entrance.

They were set upon as soon as they entered. Yet another Orsimer led the charge while a Dunmer and Nord fired arrows from a distance. This time, Ashtu didn't allow the Orc an advantage over his housecarl. With deft hands, he poisoned an arrow and paralyzed the Orc with his first shot, then turned his attention to the archers. Lydia hacked the helpless bandit several times, taking a good deal of the fight out of him before he regained his feet. Bellowing in a berserker's rage, the Orc brought a warhammer to bear. Lydia dodged, barely avoiding his swing. Unable to recover quickly, he was vulnerable to her next attack. Her blade cut through the damaged armor into his greenish gray flank. The Orc bandit tried to strike her once more, but his movement was hindered, and she took him down with her backswing.

The other two bandits were already dead. Gasping, she leaned against the wall.

"All you well?" Ashtu asked, touching her arm. She stiffened, and he quickly stepped back.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I am well. Just... give me a moment. Please."

The Orsimer nodded, and set about checking pockets. When he reached the archers, he found something else.

"Lydia, come," he said quietly. Something in his voice told her to hasten.

Similar to the other tower, there was a cell on this landing, only it was not empty. A dead woman lay in a pool of blood on the straw-covered floor. Ashtu seemed to deflate, his shoulders sagging in defeat. He fumbled the key in the cell door's lock, and it swung open.

As he examined the body, searching for the telltale ring, Lydia noticed a note on the table next to the cell. Reading it, she grimaced.

"Is Burbag an Orc name?" she asked.

Without looking up from his distasteful task, Ashtu nodded. "Yes. Sounds like it."

"I do not think this is Fjola," she said. "Apparently, she was picked up recently. This... Burbag...," she said, hesitating. Reading from the note once more, she continued, "He found her a bit... spirited, and 'beat some respect' into her, it seems."

Ashtu quickly rose and grabbed the parchment from her hands. His eyes scanned the page, then he crumpled it up and tossed it aside. Lips curling in disgust, he glared at the fallen Orsimer, quite possibly the one called Burbag.

"My da would have done more than beat me with a stick if he _ever_ heard tell of me doing such a thing," he growled.

"You are a good man, Ashtu," she said quietly.

"I am not," he snapped. "I forced..."

" _No_ ," Lydia interrupted, grabbing his arm and making him look at her. "You did _not_. We will talk _later_. There is a door, and more to this place. Christer's wife needs our help."

Though his brow furrowed with uncertainty, he nodded and led the way out.


	12. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler alert for quest "Search Mistwatch for Fjola."

Ashtu fitted the key in the lock and opened the door to the eastern tower. The hallway curved around, and he could see a room beyond. Motioning over his shoulder to Lydia, for he found it difficult to look at her now, he crept up on the entryway.

Sitting at a table poring over maps sat a Nord woman. Ashtu nocked an arrow and aimed. He would have loosed the shaft, had he not noticed she wore a silver ring on her hand. His bow dropped a few inches as he stood there, uncertain.

His hesitance bought the bandit leader a moment to hear the movement of Lydia's steel-plated footsteps, try as she might to walk silently in her Thane's wake. The bandit rose and turned.

"I thought I heard a bit of a ruckus downstairs," she said coolly as she approached. Ashtu couldn't bring himself to fire, and straightened. He did not drop his bow, however.

"Where is Fjola?" Lydia demanded, coming around to stand beside the Orc. Glancing at her, he saw the firm set to her jaw, the angry furrow in her brow. Ripples of heat cascaded through him, and he quickly looked away.

"Fjola?" the leader said, startled. "Who comes seeking her?"

"We are sent by her husband," Ashtu snarled. "I see you have stolen her ring. Where is she?"

The woman laughed. "Oh, Christer, can you not leave well enough alone?" She shook her head and rubbed her brow. "I stole no ring, Orc. _I_ am Fjola."

" _You_?" Lydia cried. Ashtu heard the scrape of her sword tip on the flagstones as her arm went limp with shock.

Again, the bandit leader laughed. "Of course! Did he not tell you I was among the first 'kidnapped'? Taking the sons and daughters of the wealthy and holding them for ransom was _my_ idea. This rabble had no guiding hand until I came along and whipped them into shape."

"What of your husband?" his housecarl snapped. "He frets and worries over your fate, and you prance about in the guise of a thief, your men murdering helpless prisoners while you count your coin!"

Fjola frowned. "My men do not murder."

"What of the woman lying dead in a cell in the other tower?" Ashtu roared, his temper flaring. "By Burbag's hand! Is he not one of your men?"

Sighing and rolling her eyes, the bandit leader shook her head, as if this were not a new problem. "If this is so, I shall deal with him."

"He is _dealt with_ ," Ashtu snarled. "As _you_ should be, for your deeds."

"Bitch," Lydia barked, raising her sword once more. Ashtu motioned for her to stand down.

"Christer followed you here, and sent us to find you," he said coldly. "What would you have us tell him?"

"I cannot believe he dogged my footsteps, even _this_ far," Fjola replied, turning and beginning to pace with agitation. "I do not wish him harm, just... I wish him _gone_. Life with him was misery for me. He was not cruel, just... dull." Facing Ashtu's stormy glare, she said, "Tell him you found me dead. Here. Show him this ring. I do not wish to be burdened with it any longer, and perhaps it will give him peace." She handed her ring to the Orc. "Now leave. I will undoubtedly have much work ahead of me in reforming my group. I suspect you left me with nothing on your way here."

Disgusted, Ashtu whirled around and headed out the door, Lydia behind him.

"You're letting her go?" she demanded as they retraced their steps down to where Christer awaited word.

"I do not tell lies, but neither do I wish to cause pain," he snarled. "I believe it would hurt him less to hear of her death than her treachery."

"They why did you not slay the bitch?" Lydia pressed. "Then you could tell him of her death with a clear conscience."

"I could not! I do not know why."

"You have too soft a heart," the Nord grumbled.

"I was not sent to kill _her_ , only to find her, and that I have done," he growled. "Leave me be, woman. I am sick to my stomach enough."

Their furious steps brought them to the bottom of the north tower, where Christer anxiously awaited news. Wringing his hands, he shifted from foot to foot when he saw them approach.

"Do you have news? Did you find her? Where is she?"

The Orsimer bowed his head in shame for what he was about to do. "She is... we found her dead. I am sorry." He pressed the ring into the shocked man's hand.

"My Fjola," he whispered, then the man dissolved in tears. Ashtu looked away. "I... I thank you... for trying. I... I think I shall... return home." The Orc nodded without looking at him. He didn't look up again until he heard the door closing.

"I should be cursed," he growled under his breath.

"No," Lydia said softly, and he quivered when he felt her hand on his arm. "The Fjola he knew was dead when we found her. You did not tell _much_ of a lie."

"Is he gone?"

Ashtu and Lydia turned at Fjola's voice. She was descending the stairs toward them.

"What did you tell him?"

Lydia stepped up to the Nord woman, and Ashtu felt a thrill of alarm run through him when he saw how her fingers flexed on the hilt of her sword. "We told him you were dead."

"That is good. I did not want him to suffer on my account."

"He will not," Lydia replied coldly. "Nor will he go to his grave believing a lie."

When needed, Lydia could move swiftly in steel armor, and she felt the need now. Stepping forward, she drove her armored elbow into Fjola's breastbone, staggering the bandit back a few steps. Then she brought her greatsword around in a sweeping arc.

It was over so quickly, Ashtu hadn't a moment to twitch before the bandit leader's head stopped rolling and came to a halt across the room. Fjola's body slumped to the floor at Lydia's feet.

Turning to her Thane, she said, "We have an appointment in Riften, Ashtu. We should not be late for it."

* * *

Night had fallen when they finally emerged from the fortress. Part of him dreaded the 'talk' they would have upon camping tonight, but it was needed. Especially now. He could not explain why her slaying of the bandit had so aroused him, only that it did, and he wanted...

 _Stop it_ , he told himself. _You were convenient, as you have often been._

Wincing, he stared ahead as they marched in silence up the mountain path. Riften was, by his map, still two days' journey away. Two nights, with her so close...

_STOP IT! Have you not shamed her_ _**enough** _ _?_

"My Thane," Lydia said, "we must set a camp for the night. The moon is not bright enough to walk by."

He slowed to a halt and stared at the ground. "I would rather walk until my legs are worn to stumps."

"Avoidance solves nothing," she said gently, then headed off the path to look for a resting place.

Tempted as he was to lay his bedroll in the middle of the road, regardless of what dangers that may bring, Ashtu dragged himself into the underbrush after his housecarl. She was already laying a fire.

"There is a chill in the air," she commented, using flint and steel to ignite a pile of dry twigs. "I think we should risk a fire."

"Why did you kill the woman?" he asked as he sat opposite her, the firepit between them.

"It was needed," Lydia said casually. "Lies are unbecoming." She threw a stick into the fire, showing a hint of the anger that seethed beneath the surface. "If she did not want him, she should have told him herself."

Ashtu nodded, his brow furrowing. "Was it only the lie she made me tell?"

The woman stirred the coals, not looking at him. "Love... should not be built on lies. It is an insecure foundation. But that is not the only reason why I slew her. She was a criminal. Her men were not under her control, and she did not care. A woman suffered because of it, and she _did not care_. 'Deal with him' indeed!" Lydia snarled, hurling another stick across the camp this time. It disappeared in the bushes beyond the firelight.

They sat in silence for several minutes. He couldn't bring it up, didn't even know the words to broach the subject. Clearly impatient and frustrated with his reticence, Lydia took the leap herself.

"If you will say nothing, then I must," she snapped. He could see her eyes glittering fiercely through the heat haze over the low fire. "You came to me in a rush of passion, I accepted your advance, and we... we...," she said quickly, but faltered on the last.

"We fucked," Ashtu snarled with contempt. He could not meet her eyes, and glared into the flames, willing them to consume him.

"Is that all it was to you?" Lydia asked quietly.

How could he say otherwise? He had been told, time and time again, by those wiser than he, that humans despised the touch of Orcs. It was his curse, that his personal tastes favored the smooth, pale skin, the flat teeth, the gentler nature. He glanced up at her, and bit back the lie he thought was required. He could not look this woman in the eye, and tell her anything but the truth.

"No, Lydia," he replied, and hung his head. "It wasn't."

"Nor was it to me," she said.

"I brought shame upon you," he said. "It would be best... and I would not blame you if you said it... say that I... that I forced you. None would question it."

Her face froze in shock. "Ashtu," she breathed, "how could I possibly...?"

"I am an Orc," he snarled. "The wise ones who teach of cultures and their differences... they say there is no greater shame than... union... with my kind. It is... assumed that... that such things are the result of rape. So that is what happened."

"It is a lie," she said firmly. "I will not speak such a lie, and neither will you. If you say such a vile thing again, _then_ you will shame me, most assuredly."

"How can I not?" he roared. "If any learn of what I did to you..."

"Oh, for the love of Mara!" Lydia interrupted. Standing, she strode over to his side of the campfire and stood before him. Startled, he retreated slightly. She was having none of it, however.

Before his shocked eyes, the woman stripped off her armor, piece by piece, flinging each aside.

_What would you have me do, strip to nothing?_

And that she did. Standing astride his legs, she lowered herself onto his lap, facing him. He was thoroughly unmade by such boldness, and sat helplessly as she untied the laces of his breeches.

"You shall have a like tale to tell," she growled as she took him inside her. "Of the Nord woman who wrested _your_ virtue from you, and you a helpless traveler minding his own affairs."

Her mouth found in his a willing victim, and plundered without mercy. He could only hold on, his head swimming in feverish lust, his fingers gripping her backside tightly enough to leave marks as she rode him.

Unexpectedly, she slowed, and halted. She drew back and looked at him, her face flushed with unquenched desire, lips swollen from such rough contact with his. On her cheek, he saw a tiny prick where his tusk must have cut her.

"I do not speak Mara's words," she said quietly. "I never have. The words were always my own." She kissed him tenderly, and murmured against his mouth, "I love you, Ashtulagal."

"My heart is yours, my love also," he replied breathlessly.

She kissed his face, his large pointed ears, nuzzled his neck, and finally resumed the delicious movement of her hips, stroking him slowly. He wanted to be rid of his clothing, but doing so would end this moment. It was a small thing to endure, for such blissful reward.


	13. Orsimer Scarification

Lydia lay beside him with her bare back pressed into the curve of his body. She could feel his warmth and a light sheen of sweat on his skin. His arms cradled her, and she felt contented by his closeness. A smile curved her lips as she listened to his gentle snoring.

It did not trouble her, though it probably should. Her mother would have been appalled. Her father... well, it was best not to even imagine his reaction. A slight pucker appeared on her brow, wondering about her brother's opinion on the matter. He was not likely to miss the affection that would undoubtedly make itself known to any who cared to look, and especially to those who knew her. True, she had not seen Brunulf for quite awhile, but they had been close once upon a time, though many years separated their ages, and he knew her well. There would be no hiding this.

She hoped he was in Riften when they arrived. His habits were not easy to discern, by his own design, and he likely had information they needed.

Defiance had been easy in the moons' forgiving glow, but was not so easily regained under the sun's harsh glare. They broke camp in silence, barely able to speak to one another as had been the case before. It was infuriating, no matter that Lydia had only just, a few days before, learned how alike they truly were. How worthy of respect he was. How inconsequential his race was in all considerations.

He apparently believed there was still _one_ consideration where his race should remain an obstacle.

"Ashtu," she said quietly to his back as they resumed their march southward. "I know better than to ask what ails you. So I will just say, leave it behind."

"I cannot," he snarled, unexpectedly harsh.

"Did you not...," she began, then trotted up to walk at his side. It only made her more angry to be where she could not look at his face. And he was scowling, his expression unchanged since waking. "Did you declare your love for me, or did I mishear?"

He swallowed hard, yet refused to look at her. "I did. And it was meant."

"Then, but not now?" she snapped coldly.

Wincing, he shook his head. "For always. And it changes nothing."

"Stubborn man," she grumbled. "Whatever has made you so... bent on defying what is in your heart?"

He stopped and took a deep breath, then growled. Hauling off his pack, he rummaged in it for a minute, produced a thin volume, and shoved it into her hands. Then he shouldered his burden once more and continued stomping down the road.

Startled, Lydia slowly followed, examining the book. It had a worn cover, as if it were old and oft-read. The original color might have been a rich brown, but was now a faded tan. Glancing at his rigid back, she opened the front and read the flyleaf: _Notes on Racial Phylogeny and Biology_

There were passages roughly circled by a charcoal stylus, as if they were important and worth remembering. Particular words were even underlined by the same hand for emphasis.

_The reproductive biology of orcs is at present not well understood..._

_...there have been cases of intercourse between these "races," generally in the nature of rape or magickal seduction..._

_...the infertility of these creatures and the civilized hominids has yet to be empirically established or refuted..._

_Surely any normal Bosmer or Breton impregnated by an orc would keep that shame to herself..._

_Regrettably, our oaths as healers keep us from forcing a coupling to satisfy our scientific knowledge._

Lydia slammed the book shut, and looked in horror at Ashtu. "Where did you get this?" she asked, her voice shaking.

"My da gave it to me," he replied flatly. "Thought I might... benefit from it."

"How in Oblivion do you 'benefit' from a book that claims union with your people is a badge of shame? That such a thing could not _possibly_ occur without force?"

Ashtu slowed to a halt, head and shoulders drooping. "We cannot prove it does _not_."

" _No_ race can! There are Nords aplenty who commit such vile acts as this book claims are 'necessary' for coupling with an Orc!" Lydia cried, throwing the book on the ground and spitting upon it. "It is... filth like _that_ which justifies the hate of men like my father. Gives them an excuse to pass such disgusting ideas on to their children, thinking it is _proven_ to be true."

"You held such things to your heart not a week ago!" Ashtu roared, picking up the book and brandishing it in her face. Lydia winced as if he had struck her. She looked away uncomfortably.

"I learned what was false, and what was true," she replied quietly. "I do not understand how your da could do this to you."

"It was for my own good," he snarled. "I was a boy who needed schooling."

"That was a cruel lesson to be taught," she snapped. "And one that is _not true_ , as you must surely know by now."

He stared at the book in his hands, unable to meet her eyes. "I showed... too much interest in a Breton woman with a trade caravan that came through our village. I had never seen... she was pale and beautiful. Not anything like the women of our village. I asked my da if I would be allowed to court her." He chuckled with the recollection of his youthful infatuation, then the pained smile that flitted across his face disappeared. "He told me I must never, _ever_ have such thoughts. He said... humans think us ugly and brutish, little more than beasts. He said... if I approached her, she would run in fear, and her people would raze our village to avenge the wrong I'd committed, even if I never laid a hand on her. I did not understand why, until he found this book, and made me read it." His face twitched as he stared at the cover, holding it carefully. She wasn't sure if he loved or loathed it. Perhaps both. "These words... tamed me... those years in the Legion. Not all the women in my company were Orsimer. None were ever given reason to fear Ashtulagal."

"He should have stuck to cutting switches for your lessons," Lydia growled. "This is a foul thing, and if you do not burn it _immediately_ , I will do so while you sleep and cannot hinder me."

A slight smile found purchase and hesitantly showed itself on his face. "You _are_ my housecarl. Sworn to my protection."

Lydia snatched the book from his hands and tossed it away. Concentrating, she pulled fire from the depths of her being into a roaring ball in her hand, then flung it at the book. Though not often called upon, the flame was hot and easily found, fueled as it was by her anger. The brittle pages burst into flame.

Turning back to the Orsimer, Lydia grabbed his face and kissed him fiercely. His arms encircled her waist, pulling her close. After a few moments, she retreated enough to press her forehead against his.

"We will teach _new_ lessons," she whispered, "and I hope all will see us do it."

* * *

When they stopped to camp that night, Lydia purposefully laid her bedroll alongside his. She set aside her armor and all her clothing. Though Ashtu's brow furrowed, and he seemed slightly reluctant, he followed suit, and responded to her advances. This time, when he knelt over her, he was not simply demonstrating the _manner_ in which his folk made love.

Their bodies moved together, her hands stroking down his back and over his buttocks. He supported himself on his elbows, allowing him to be close enough to tenderly kiss her and rub her hair between his fingers. In such a position, he was able to lean down and graze her skin with his teeth, causing pleasant shivers to run down her spine.

"Lydia," he whispered.

"Yes, my love," she answered.

"You know I do not wish you harm."

"I know you do not."

"We... do things... instinctive things... that would offend you," he said.

"What things?" she asked mildly. His attentions had cast a spell of pleasure throughout her body, and she felt utterly relaxed.

"An Orsimer man... marks his woman when they... make love," he replied uncomfortably. She realized his voice was strained, as if he was holding himself in check.

"Marks?" she repeated, brow furrowed.

As if to demonstrate, he slowly opened his mouth over her collarbone, and she felt the tips of his tusks touch the skin. For a moment, she stiffened, anticipating a fatal bite, but he retreated.

"It is... _used_ to be a claim," he explained, his voice beginning to shake as he continued to fight the urge to satisfy what was clearly a deeply-rooted need. "Now it is more a proof of relationship."

"You... bite your lover?" she asked fearfully.

"We are beasts...," he growled, her reaction clearly shaming him.

"No," Lydia said firmly. "No." Tilting her chin up to bear her throat to him, she slipped her hand behind his head and urged him downward. "I trust you," she breathed.

Once more, she felt his tusks and sharp teeth grip her collarbone, but now they slowly sank in. While he did this, Ashtu increased the vigor of his hips' motions, plunging deeply inside her with each thrust.

Lydia was a soldier; she had been pierced by blades on many occasions. Ashtu's bite was nearly insignificant in the wake of much more violent attacks. Though the pain was not unnoticeable, it was manageable, and when coupled with such sweet bliss, was actually very arousing. She dug her nails into his backside, her cries rapturous as her body convulsed with a wild climax.

She went limp beneath him, barely acknowledging when he released her and rolled off to lie flat on his back and gasp for breath.

"I would not blame you," he said when he could speak again, "if such a thing... offends."

"I am not offended," Lydia said, her own heart still beating swiftly in her chest, her breath still not returned after such thorough satisfaction. "In fact, I think I would welcome it again, if you were so inclined."

Ashtu slowly turned his head to look at her, an inscrutable expression on his face. "I pleased you. I'm surprised."

"You have pleased me with ever touch, every kiss, every... embrace," she said, rolling onto her side and resting her head on her hand. She glanced down and gingerly touched the fresh wound. "You see? I do not bleed."

"Do you understand why you do not?" he asked uncomfortably, looking up at the starry sky to avoid her gaze.

Lydia almost answered that it was a shallow, relatively harmless bite, but she knew this was not true. Her attention had been drawn elsewhere, as intended, but she still knew how deeply he had sunk his tusks into her flesh. There would likely be bruising, something difficult to see on an Orsimer woman, blatantly obvious on a pale-skinned Nord.

"You drank my blood," she said calmly.

"Do you understand why?"

"No," she replied. "I trust... you will explain."

"Blood... is important to Orcs," he said. "If a wrong is committed in an Orsimer settlement, the wrongdoer must pay Blood Price. Gold is not considered... precious enough. He must bleed sufficiently to satisfy the victim of his crime." He shifted uncomfortably. "I know that Nords... exchange jewelry to seal their commitments. Rings and such." He shook his head. "These things are easily lost, or hidden when they become... inconvenient. What I did... cannot be lost, though... you may hide it from those you do not want to see it."

"But... if I took another lover, _he_ would see it," Lydia ventured.

"Yes," Ashtu confirmed. "Forgive me. I should have explained before I..."

"No, you did not need to," she said. "Go on, please."

Taking a deep breath, Ashtu continued, "Blood has a value greater than gold. For an Orsimer to... give it, or allow it to be taken... It has great significance. Between lovers... it is like committing the soul, and such a promise is renewed with every fresh scar."

"Would I be allowed to do such a thing to _you_?" she asked, a smile twitching her lips. He glanced over, and finally relaxed enough to smile in return.

"Of course," he replied. "Though... I think it would hurt me more. You have such flat teeth. Ill-suited to such things."

"I'll try to be gentle," she teased. "Have you done this before?"

"No," he said sheepishly. "I have never felt the need, until tonight, with you."

She inched closer to him, rested her head on his shoulder, pressed close to his body. He wrapped his arm around her and kissed the top of her head. She encircled his waist.

From Ashtu's description of this exchange of blood, Lydia wondered if she had just consented to be his wife. Somehow, the thought didn't disturb her in the least.


	14. Family Matters

Ashtu hesitated after walking through the gates. The worn stone path leading between the brick and timber buildings ahead of them undulated over the uneven ground from generations of foot traffic. The wooden beams supporting the second floor balcony of the structure to their left were cracked with age and dampness. He now recalled from his maps that the town was built on the shores of a great lake.

Turning to Lydia, he said, "Where should we begin looking for your brother?"

Chuckling, she shook her head. "We don't. Did you see the beggar who darted down that alley when we arrived?"

Frowning, Ashtu looked where she indicated, but saw nothing. He shook his head.

"We have been marked," she explained in a low voice. "My face is known. If he is here, he will come find me." Smiling, she headed down the narrow road into the heart of Riften.

Following warily, the Orc's eyes took in the sights. Night was falling; there were many people of various races walking on the wooden walkways above the canal that circled the Ratway below. Many were headed into a large inn across a bridge. Lydia led them here as well.

The sign above the door read 'Bee and Barb,' and the inside was nothing like the inns and taverns of Whiterun Hold. The common room was large and wide, taking up almost the entire ground floor. Many tables lined the walls and clustered around the support beams, and nearly all were occupied, as it was the dinner hour. Lydia left him standing awkwardly in the entryway as she approached the barkeep, a female Argonian. Ashtu shook himself and joined her.

"A room, if you please," Lydia said to the reptilian woman. In the firelight, her scales almost seemed golden.

"A room for each, yes?" the barkeep asked, her red-hued eyes flicking between the Nord and the Orc.

"Just the one," Lydia replied.

"Apologies, lady," the Argonian said, bowing her head. "I thought you traveled together."

"We _do_ travel together," Lydia asserted. She gazed at the barkeep with quiet dignity. "A single room. With... with a large bed."

The Argonian woman's face was not as pliable as other races', and did little to betray her opinions on any subject, but Ashtu noted that her eyelids blinked more rapidly than before, and her nostrils contracted, nearly sealing shut. Her mouth parted to show her needle-like teeth, and a long, narrow tongue slithered out to lick them.

"I do not want trouble upstairs," she rasped nervously.

"Two rooms, then," Ashtu interjected. "And no trouble."

Lydia hissed at him and glared. " _No_ ," she said in an undertone. Turning back to the barkeep, whose scales seemed to be reddening with agitation, the Nord said firmly, " _One_ room, with a bed large enough for two, and a hot bath, _also_ for two."

The barkeep's eyes darted between them again, then to the nearest patrons. None seemed to be paying any attention to the exchange, for none had truly raised their voice. "I've nothing against you," the barkeep whispered. "But there be Nords aplenty in this town that would. _Mer_ as well." Her mouth curved in what must have been a smile. "But I see Mara's Light in your eyes. You shall have my _best_ room."

Turning to her logbook, the barkeep jotted down their reservation. "It will take a bit of time to fill the bath. You may stay here in the common room and have a bite to eat in the meantime. Then I will fetch you."

"Thank you," Lydia said gratefully.

They sat at one of the few unoccupied tables in the room, and Ashtu let out his breath in a whoosh. He hadn't even realized he'd been holding it. "I do not know if I am ready for this, Lydia."

"There is no reason to hide how we feel," she replied, sipping the local offering. She hadn't been to Riften in a very long time, and frankly missed the Black-Briar Mead for which it was famous. "There is a Temple of Mara here; surely they see celebrations of love in all forms each day."

"You assume they think of _this_ as a 'celebration,'" he growled. His yellow eyes scanned the room for any who might be taking an interest in him or his housecarl.

"It is," she insisted, smiling easily. "Do not over-indulge. The mead here is not that watered-down swill from Windhelm. I would not have you losing your head."

"My heart is already lost," he chuckled. "What good is my head alone?"

"Your prowess, then," she amended with a leer. "I have plans for you that require your... full attention."

"Woman, you are fearless," Ashtu said with a grin. "To want the 'full attention' of an Orc."

"Not any Orc," she said almost shyly, "just the one."

Ashtu sighed and looked at his hands in his lap. "It was the Orc that... roused me."

Lydia's brow rose, and she looked at him curiously. "Is that so?"

Nodding, he said awkwardly, "When... that bandit attacked you... the Orc... I feared for you more than at any other time."

"He was fierce and strong," the Nord replied. "Stronger than I."

"I know. I was not certain _I_ could take him, either, until you fell back, and I knew I must."

"I see," she said quietly. "I never... thanked you for saving me. I apologize."

Ashtu laughed. "I would say you did, in not so many words." It pleased him to see her blush.

"I wondered why you did not show such... passion after any of the other fights we have been in," Lydia commented.

He shrugged and took a steadying drink of the mead. "Meaning no insult, but more often than not, only one of our own presents sufficient challenge in battle. Our people do not always see eye-to-eye on things, and come to blows easily enough. He likely did not believe it dishonorable to prey on the weak or take what is not offered. I, on the other hand, would have gotten my ass handed to me if I so much as suggested such ideas."

Lydia chuckled. "Your da brought you up well."

"Had to," Ashtu replied. "I lost my mother before I ever knew her. He had to fill both needs."

"He did not marry again?"

"Orsimer... often do not. At least, where I came from." He took another drink. "I asked him, once. If he ever thought about it. He said if I had known her, I would not have to ask."

"He must have missed her terribly," Lydia observed.

"He did," Ashtu nodded. "I am fortunate he was not the sort to hate needlessly. He never blamed me for her death."

"I should like to meet him, one day."

"That thought has crossed my mind," Ashtu said, daring a look at her face.

"Has it?" She raised her eyebrows. "I have never been to Hammerfell. Do you truly mean to visit your father?"

Encouraged, the Orsimer nodded eagerly. "I have not been back in ten years. It would be good... to go home."

"My love," she said cautiously, "there is much yet to be done here. You have a contract on your life. Dragons have returned. Repulsive or not, your... many believe you hold the key to their defeat. At least go to High Hrothgar. See the Greybeards. Find out if... another can take your place, if that is your wish."

He considered flaring up in a rage at her words. A few days ago, he might have. Now he just rubbed his face wearily. "Very well. When we are through here, we will go. And no side trips this time. I want my business with those old men over and done."

Sighing with relief, Lydia covered his hand with hers. "Good. It is best to get unpleasant things out of the way quickly.

"Miss, sir," the Argonian woman interrupted in a discreet voice, "your room is ready."

* * *

Though they bathed first, it was anything but unpleasant. Ashtu was completely relaxed by the heat of the water, in spite of joining Lydia in mutual exploration that ended with great waves splashing over the sides of the tub from their vigorous lovemaking. Then they retired to the bed, where his full attention was again focused on pleasing her.

There was no comparison, he decided. The cold, hard ground had ever been where he as a soldier on campaign took his pleasures, and seemed the natural course to take with Lydia for reasons of discretion. But enjoying her in a bed, like any man and woman would... It seemed to cast his prior experiences into shame, encounters of little or no meaning, for they were desperately rushed, intended only for empty comfort. With Lydia, he felt a tinge of regret for the manner in which they came together, not unlike those moments of hollow indulgence.

 _It should have been here_ , he thought. _We should have waited._

Striving to compensate, he gave more than he ever imagined was within him to give. Though they kept the sounds of their union as discreet as possible, she left no doubts she struggled as much as he to do so.

When at last they were thoroughly sated, the Orsimer and the Nord drifted off to sleep in one another's arms.

* * *

"Well now, this _is_ a surprise."

Ashtu jerked awake, as did Lydia. The Orc reached for his sword, but it was so dark in the room now, he could see almost nothing. Frustrated, he made to spring from the bed, but the voice spoke again.

"Please, don't get up on my account. In fact, I'd rather you didn't."

"Brunulf," Lydia gasped.

"Baby sister."

Ashtu froze, swallowing hard. This wasn't how he wanted to meet her family.

"I can explain...," she ventured weakly.

The unseen man laughed. "'Not what it appears'? Do tell." Light flared into being suddenly as the bedside lamps seemingly lit themselves. The grinning Nord blew on his fingers, quenching the bit of flame that remained, and brushed the tips on his tunic. He then vaulted onto the bed, settling himself comfortably near their feet. "It would seem this is a night for stories. How are you, Lydia? It has been a long time."

At first glance, Ashtu would say they were unrelated, for this man seemed not only several years her elder, but far less serious. His brow was not lined from worry as hers often was. His long wavy hair was light, not dark. Yet his eyes were hers, and the way half his mouth tipped slightly higher when he grinned was also the same.

"What are you doing here?" the Orc snarled. Kin he may be, but this was a bit much even for Ashtu to take.

"Temper, temper," Brunulf chided. "I believe tradition dictates that _I_ should be the one insulted, for discovering the libertine who bedded my sister, caught in the very act of defilement."

Stricken, Ashtu shifted away from Lydia, and his breathing quickened. Naked and unarmed, he stood no chance, not if this man commanded fire with such subtle control.

"Brunulf, it isn't like that!" Lydia cried, casting a worried look at Ashtu. She clutched the blanket to her naked breasts in such a way that there could be no misinterpretation of what had transpired. The Orsimer's mark on her body was vividly apparent. Ashtu was trapped between protecting her honor and the truth, and didn't know which was more important at the moment.

"Of course it isn't," the man replied dismissively. "I jest. In father's absence, I felt it was necessary for his voice to be heard. There. I have done my duty by him. Now he can fuck himself."

Ashtu's jaw fell open.

"You are not... offended?" Lydia asked timidly.

"Goodness no," Brunulf scoffed. "If he has not spun in his coffer from the women _I_ have consorted with, your little... adventure is of little import. And truly, the man was not innocent of his own lustful indulgences, though you are too young to remember."

Narrowing his eyes, Ashtu glanced at Lydia. She appeared utterly wrong-footed by her brother's casual revelation.

"What are you saying?"

"You recall mother's handmaiden? The Khajiit?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

His sister blanched. "Kesha?"

"Ah, you _do_ remember!" he crowed triumphantly.

"Father... she was his lover?" she hissed in disbelief.

"Ah...no," Brunulf replied. "That would imply consent. Such was never the case with father, I'm afraid."

"How can you say such things of him?" she cried, horrified. Ashtu scowled at the man as he laid his hand on Lydia's shoulder to steady her.

Brunulf's brows rose in surprise. "Dear sister, I hope you do not think by my words that father stalked the roads and alehouses looking for victims. Not at all. He preferred them conveniently at his beck and call, so mired in debt to him that they had no choice. Kesha, who was not the first _or_ last maid to warm his bed, was indentured for theft. I don't think she did anything of the sort; likely covering for a mate or somesuch, but the point is, she was unable to leave, and unlikely to notify authorities who, truthfully, would not believe a word of it. Why would a man like our father sully his bed with non-human scum? I ask you. _Laughable_."

Turning to Ashtu, he fixed the Orc with a piercing look. "Do you love her?"

"I do," he answered without hesitation, though the man's mercurial moods were disturbing.

"Then I am satisfied." Glancing at his sister, he grinned. "And so are _you_ , I see by the flush of your cheeks." Tsking, he waggled a finger at Ashtu. "Naughty boy."


	15. Secrets and Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the Daedric Quest, "The Cursed Tribe." A bit of license taken, couple of changes, but essentially the basic quest. Malacath's dialog is quoted as close to the game as possible, which I think is allowed under the Fair Use Act. If not, Malacath's dialog is copyrighted by Bethesda. :)

"I assume this visit is not without purpose," Brunulf said, growing serious.

"True," Lydia sighed. "I apologize for not contacting you sooner. It has been... too long."

"Indeed. But water under the bridge now, eh?" Grinning, he rose and went to the dresser. "It is a wonder, I must say," he muttered to himself as he rummaged. Finally, he found what he was looking for, and tossed the shift to Lydia. "Not just an Orc I find in your bed, but the _Dragonborn_. I never knew you had such ambitions."

"It is not like that," Lydia snapped, pulling the dress over her head.

"How do you know who I am?" Ashtu snarled. Rising from the bed, he went to fetch a pair of breaches from the same dresser.

"Your movements have been closely watched ever since that little incident with the dragon in Whiterun," Brunulf laughed. "There are _many_ with an interest in your... comings and goings."

Lydia met the Orc's surprised gaze. "Brunulf... there _is_ a matter I came to discuss." Going to her pack, she pulled out the cloth-wrapped dagger and handed it to her brother.

Raising his eyebrows, he cautiously unwrapped the weapon. His brows rose higher still. "I see," he said softly. Turning the blade over and over again in his hand, he examined every inch of it. Then he held the leather handle up to his nose and breathed in. Nostrils flaring, he lowered it once more. "Khajiit, I suspect?"

"The assassin was Khajiiti, yes," Lydia said, nodding in wonder. "How did you know?"

Smiling, he replied, "Khajiit have scent glands in their palms, and often leave behind a trail only another Khajiit, or one who has had reason to track one of them, would detect. I suspect your little friend would be known to at least some of the locals down in the Ratway."

"I do not seek friends of his," his sister snapped. "I want to know who contracted the Brotherhood to slay Ashtu."

"I am certain the Brotherhood would not happily divulge such information, merely because you ask so nicely," Brunulf chuckled. "However, in this particular case..." He shook his head, smiling. " _This_ supplicant of the Night Mother is a braggart and a fool. There aren't many who do not know who he is, _where_ he is, and why he seeks your lover's blood."

Lydia waited, head tilted to the side. Her brother had always been overly dramatic, and at the moment, he seemed to be relishing every moment of their captive attention.

"Who is it, then?" the Orsimer growled. He was not nearly as patient as she was.

"Oh, just a self-styled leader of a Forsworn cell in the Reach," Brunulf replied loftily. "Quite a pig, I am told. Has a _terrible_ grudge against Orcs." He nodded apologetically to Ashtu, who scowled in return. "Like as not because they are not human, more than they have done him harm. A man with whom our father would get along quite well."

"Is there... any way to cancel this contract? Or buy it out, or... anything?" Lydia asked.

Brunulf pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Well, I'm not certain. I sometimes hear rumors that the death of the supplicant can sometimes be effective. It depends also on the mercurial whims of the Night Mother, I suspect."

"Where can he be found?" Ashtu asked.

"I hear he moves about, though he is fat and lazy, and will stay in the same place for months on end before packing up. His name is Phane. I am certain he has a bounty on his head from the Jarl," the Nord man said. "You should go there first, and make sure you have his blessing before tramping about his hold, killing Forsworn left and right. Jarl Igmund may not be as appreciative as, say, the majority of his citizens at being well rid of beasts like Phane. Wouldn't want to upset his puppetmasters, the Thalmor, either, now would we?"

* * *

Their business with him concluded, Lydia's brother only stayed long enough to hug his sister, shake hands with Ashtu, and promise to keep in touch. Alone once more, Lydia embraced Ashtu and rested her head on his shoulder.

"I do not want to leave this specter hovering over your head for long," she said. "We will do what needs to be done with the Greybeards, then go to Markarth."

"The Reach borders Hammerfell," Ashtu murmured, kissing the top of her head.

"You may not be able to escape your duty here," she warned. "Best not to think so far ahead."

"Yet you would travel to Markarth..."

"It is still in Skyrim," she replied. "We have no reason to believe the dragons have spread so far that other provinces are also plagued with them."

"We cannot know either way," Ashtu insisted. "If my village is in danger, I have a duty to return."

Drawing back to look him in the eyes, Lydia said, "Your duty may be greater than one small village in the Dragontail Mountains."

"There is no _greater_ duty..."

"If it is the saving of lives throughout Skyrim, even across all of Tamriel, I would say it is."

"I am no... hero," he growled. "I do not seek renown. I only wish to be Ashtulagal, an Orsimer of no consequence."

"I think the time is past for such wishes," Lydia said gently.

* * *

The morning sun shone on them as they left the south gate of Riften behind. Scowling at the signpost directing them toward Ivarstead, Ashtu almost missed the board that also proclaimed Helgen in the same direction.

Grimacing, he snarled, "Pity that cursed beast did such a poor job. Left me alive."

"I am glad it did," Lydia replied. "Come. We should not linger."

Ashtu sighed and nodded. Turning, he marched stiffly down the road, his woman by his side. Even spending three blissful nights in the Bee and Barb hadn't quenched his desire for her, but as she wisely pointed out, there was much to do; a task begun was half finished. He did, after all, want this awful business over and done with.

They walked for hours before coming across anyone or anything of note aside from rabbits and deer. A robed figure sat on a fallen tree. As they approached him warily, they realized he was a Khajiit.

"Hail," Ashtu said cautiously. The cat nodded in greeting.

"M'aiq knows much, and tells some," he said cryptically.

"Do you need help?" Lydia asked uncertainly, glancing at the Orc.

"M'aiq does not suppose... you have calipers?"

"Um... no, we do not," Ashtu said, furrowing his brow in confusion. "If you do not need our help, we'll... just... be going."

"Dragons were never gone," the Khajiit informed them, closing his eyes and nodding knowingly. Ashtu froze and looked intently at him. "They were just invisible and very, very quiet."

Rolling his eyes, Ashtu relaxed and turned back toward the road.

Grinning, M'aiq said cheekily, "M'aiq is tired now. Go bother somebody else."

"They are... a strange people, the Khajiiti," Lydia whispered, a confused look on her face.

"Was Kesha like that one?"

"No, not really," she replied, shaking her head. "Maybe he's just addled."

"Hmph," Ashtu snorted. "Skooma addict, likely." Glancing at Lydia's flushed face, he winced. "Apologies."

"It is all right."

"I did not mean..."

"It is _fine_ ," Lydia snapped. "I know you do not mean to insult me or my mother's memory. I do not take offense, but if you continue to apologize, I might."

Nodding, Ashtu looked ahead once more. His eyes suddenly flared wide, and he roughly pushed Lydia off the road into the underbrush.

"Giant," he breathed.

The huge creature lumbered across the road ahead of them, its attention fixed on a walled fortress barely visible through the trees. Ashtu stiffened. Although he'd never seen one, he just _knew_ this was an Orsimer stronghold. Rising purposefully, he started to follow the giant.

"What are you doing?" Lydia hissed. She grabbed his arm to stop him.

"It's after Orcs," he growled, drawing his bow. She nodded and followed.

The giant moved slowly compared to the Orcs boiling out of the stronghold. Archers on the walls opened fire while the warriors flanked it and dodged the massive club. A robed Orsimer, clearly the wise woman, cast one offensive spell after another, freezing and burning the attacker by turns. As Ashtu and Lydia converged at a run, an Orc wasn't fast enough and was struck. His body went flying at least twenty feet. He did not rise again.

Infuriated, Ashtu halted and nocked arrow after arrow, aiming high to avoid the warriors striking the creature's legs and torso. Lydia moved in to aid them, adding her great sword to the attack.

Dim-witted at the best of times, the giant didn't know which way to turn, which threat was most dire. Its swings were wide and wild, and caught another Orc by surprise. Ashtu snarled and fetched up a vial of poison for his next arrow, planting it directly between the giant's shoulder blades. Howling, the creature turned and stomped in Ashtu's direction.

Backpedaling swiftly, Ashtu fired again and again. His fellow Orcs assaulted the giant once again from behind, finally bringing the monster down. One landed a shattering hammer blow to the giant's skull to finish it.

Ashtu ran up to the second Orsimer struck, but it was too late. His entire front was a pulpy mass of bone and gore.

"We thank you," one of the surviving Orcs gasped, extending a hand to Ashtu. "They keep coming, we keep fighting, but sometimes..." He turned his face away from his fallen brother. "Perhaps fewer died today because of you."

"Take them inside," the wise woman rasped, and the Orc hastened to obey. Directing another to help, they dragged the two dead Orcs into the stronghold. The wise woman turned to Ashtu and appraised him. Her eyebrows rose slightly when Lydia came over to stand at his side.

"I am Atub, wise woman of Largashbur. You are...?"

"Ashtulagal, of the Dragontail Mountains." Gesturing, he added, "Lydia of Whiterun. My... wife."

Atub's brow furrowed. "City Orc," she muttered with disgust. "Worse, a mountain Orc. Still, you did your part. It is... appreciated."

Lydia was still stunned by Ashtu's statement and couldn't speak. The Orsimer inclined his head to Atub. "If there is any further aid you require, we would be glad to give it."

The Orsimer woman looked away uncomfortably. She seemed to be weighing her choices, deciding whether to tell him or not.

"That man said they keep attacking," Ashtu pressed. "What would giants want with this stronghold?"

Sighing, Atub beckoned them to follow. "We are cursed. Our chieftain has become weak, indecisive. Rumors have come to us of dragons, and war coming, and he does not look to our defenses. He _hides_ , thinking all will pass us by, if we take no sides."

"Surely some of you were in the Legion," Lydia pointed out as they passed through the great wooden gates. "The Empire will not forget such noble service, and may come calling."

Atub nodded in acknowledgement of the Nord's praise. "Yes, several have bravely served the Empire, including the chieftain. He seems to have forgotten such service."

"Hmph," Ashtu snorted bitterly. " _They_ suffered memory loss in Helgen. I was not recognized as a discharged soldier of the Empire. I was herded to the block as a rebel."

Arching her brow, the wise woman looked curiously at him. "Yet you live."

"A dragon attacked the town, or I would not," he answered wryly.

"Perhaps you may aid us after all," she replied. "I must pray to Malacath, and beg his guidance in this matter, but I cannot leave the stronghold. It seems that whenever any of us tries, another giant comes."

"What do you need?" Lydia asked.

"Troll fat," Atub replied. "It is his favored offering. We have none, and cannot leave to find any."

Taking a deep breath, Ashtu dropped his pack on the ground and dug into it. Near the bottom, carefully wrapped in a cloth, he found the little cork-stoppered pot he'd paid handsomely for at Elgrim's Elixirs in Riften. He'd meant it for his own ritual to seal his union with Lydia. That would have to wait.

"Take what I have," he said tightly, handing the pot to the surprised woman. "I can get more."

"You honor us," Atub breathed, holding the pot to her breast. "Perhaps mountain Orcs are not the barbarians we assumed."

Ashtu chuckled. "We all serve Malacath in our own ways."

"Come," the Orsimer woman said warmly. "Witness the ritual, and hear the voice of Malacath."

Once Atub was out of earshot, preparing the ritual space, Lydia sidled up to Ashtu. "Wife?" she asked in an undertone.

"I marked you," he said quietly. "It is as much a declaration among Orsimer as an announcement of marriage by a Nord. Are you offended?"

"Not at all," she whispered. "However, a warning would have been a kindness." She playfully swatted his backside.

"Mind yourself," Ashtu warned, a hint of teasing in his voice. "You are in an Orsimer stronghold. A _very_ small community. Performing acts of love in the open is... acceptable."

Nipping his ear, Lydia breathed, "I dare you."

He just shook his head, smiling. She knew him too well.

Atub went into the longhouse when she was ready. It was a large, high-roofed structure, shaped roughly like a crescent moon. After a few minutes, the wise woman came out, followed by the chieftain.

He looked angry. He radiated anger, in fact. His mood did not appear to improve when he saw Ashtu.

"So. In our time of need, a city Orc comes to save us," the chieftain snarled sarcastically. "I am relieved. We shall sleep soundly in our beds tonight, now that you are here."

"Yamarz, he helped us slay a giant at our gate," Atub admonished. "He and his... wife."

The chieftain grimaced. "Wife?" Looking Lydia up and down, he curled his lip. "Nord," he hissed, then turned away, dismissing her completely. Ashtu grabbed his arm and whirled Yamarz around to face him.

"Do _not_ disrespect my wife," he snarled, baring his teeth and standing toe-to-toe with the chieftain.

For a moment, Yamarz looked startled, even frightened. Then it was gone. He shook his arm free and stepped away from the infuriated Orc. "It does not matter to me what you take to your bed, city Orc."

"Enough of this," Atub snapped. "Yamarz, I require your assistance as _chieftain_."

Lydia laid a hand on Ashtu's quivering arm. "Let it go."

They stepped back and watched as Atub raised her arms in supplication to Malacath, a bowl of troll fat smoldering on live coals in a brazier before her. Yamarz rolled his eyes impatiently as Atub voiced her appeal.

"Father of Curses, hear us! We beseech you in our time of need. We seek guidance to right what wrong we have committed, and lift this curse that has befallen us."

Ashtu felt a tightness in his chest, and sank to one knee, his head bowed with reverence. The thunderous voice of Malacath filled their ears.

_You pathetic weakling! You dare summon me, Yamarz?_

The chieftain startled, looking around. Lydia fell to her knees beside Ashtu and looked about her fearfully. Atub seemed to rejoice in the Daedric Prince's attention, finally drawn to their plight. Surely now, something would be done.

_You don't deser_ _ve to call yourself an Orc. You're weak, you're small, you're an embarrassment. You let giants... GIANTS overrun my shrine!_

"The shrine is far from here. We had no way of preventing...," Yamarz began, but his wise woman interrupted him.

"The fault is ours!" Atub cried. "Tell us what we must do!"

_Bring me the hammer of their leader, and I_ _**might** _ _lift this curse._

Yamarz slowly turned toward Ashtu, rising now that the presence of their god had departed. "You son of a bitch. Thanks to your meddling, I have to go fight giants."

"It is the will of Malacath," Ashtu snarled. "And for the good of your people."

"Fuck you and your self-righteousness!" Yamarz roared. "Because of you, a challenge has been made in front of all my people, and I cannot ignore it. Since you are such an unlooked-for blessing upon us, _you_ may accompany me on this fool's errand!"

"I will not fight your battles for you, Yamarz," Ashtu warned coldly.

"I am quite capable of felling a single giant," the chieftain snapped. "You will clear a path for me. You and your _wife_ ," he spat. Again, Lydia had to put a hand on Ashtu's arm to prevent him from attacking. "Meet me at Fallowstone Cave, northeast of Riften. The shrine is in a grove we may only reach by passing through the cave." Sneering with contempt, Yamarz shouldered his weapon and marched out of the stronghold.

"Guard him as best you can," Atub said in a low voice. "I fear... Just go."

"It is back the way we came," Ashtu said cautiously to Lydia. "I know we make for Ivarstead, but..."

"Ivarstead is not about to fly away on the back of a dragon," she said, her mouth quirking slightly in a smile. "This stronghold has appealed to us for help, and we will give it."

Grinning, Ashtu impulsively pulled Lydia into a one-armed embrace and kissed her. "That is why I love you," he breathed against her mouth.

Parting from Lydia, he glanced sheepishly at Atub, who was staring at them with raised eyebrows, a slight smile on her face. "Hurry, now. Yamarz is an impatient man."

Nodding, Ashtu and Lydia left the stronghold in pursuit of the chieftain, now nearly out of sight ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phane, the man behind the contract, is addressed disgustingly thoroughly in "Lily's Reach." Story is in progress on Fanfiction.net under the pen name Zoop.


	16. Pleasing a God

Lydia was fairly certain Ashtu was purposely lagging behind the chieftain of Largashbur as they ran down the road back toward Riften. She wasn't particularly upset about that, though they weren't entirely sure of the cave's location. Yamarz was a foul-mouthed, obstinate, and hateful man; she did not want to spend more time in conversation with him than was absolutely necessary.

By nightfall, they found him waiting at the southern gate into Riften.

"We'll not make it to the cave before the moons rise," he growled as they trotted up. "May as well stay the night. Know a good inn?"

"The Bee and Barb," Ashtu replied stiffly, glancing at Lydia. "Mind yourself. The owner's a good woman."

Yamarz sneered. "Bedded her as well?"

Perhaps because Ashtu was much better raised than the chieftain, in Lydia's opinion, the Orc was struck speechless by Yamarz's remark. The chieftain chuckled derisively and passed through the gate, leaving them to catch up.

"Don't rise," the Nord warned, grasping his wrist. "He is an ass, but he is on a sacred quest. His stronghold is depending on him."

"They would be better served by one of their goats," Ashtu snarled. He said nothing else as they headed toward the inn that had shown them so much hospitality. Lydia privately dreaded what poor behavior the cursed Orc would display once inside.

Yamarz strutted into the common room, then glared disdainfully at each of the patrons calmly taking their evening meals. Keeping his eyes down, Ashtu led them to the innkeeper's counter and quietly requested two rooms.

"Ah, it is good to see you again so soon," Keerava beamed. "I see you bring a friend, yes?"

"They've been here before?" Yamarz growled.

"Yes, indeed," she replied enthusiastically. "Very good customers. Very polite."

Lydia shared an appalled look with the Argonian woman when the chieftain demanded that his room not be the same one the Nord and Ashtu had 'soiled.'

Retreating to their own room, they each let out a long breath of relief to be away from the repellent Orsimer for awhile.

"He offends me," Ashtu growled, pacing the room in agitation. "He is everything I am not."

"Thank the Nine," Lydia breathed, and lay back on the bed. She rubbed her eyes tiredly. "If his people were not so desperately in need, I would say, 'to Oblivion with him.'"

"I did not think the Orsimer of Skyrim were so..." Sighing, he shook his head. "We have only seen my folk as bandits and murderers here, and now arrogant bastards. Perhaps your father had the right of it."

Lydia sat up suddenly. "He did not."

"If you use _me_ as the measure of my people, you are deceived," he growled. "As am I."

Frowning, she shook her head slowly. "You were there, Ashtu. You heard the voice of your god. Did you not _listen_ to his words?"

"Of _course_ I listened!" the Orsimer barked. "I have never heard the voice of Malacath before. It was a blessing, though cheapened by who was spoken to." Seething, the Orc clenched his fists. "He tried to make excuses. Before our _god_."

"Thankfully, Atub had her wits about her," Lydia observed. "She seemed worried. Not terribly confident in Yamarz's ability to succeed."

"Why should she be? When he has apparently proven how fucking useless he is," Ashtu snarled. "I promise you, it will be _we_ who kill the giant. _We_ who restore the shrine. If that... pile of shit even survives, he will likely do nothing, and take all the credit for it."

Chuckling, Lydia held out a hand to him. Ashtu paused and took it. "You said you did not seek renown."

He shifted uncomfortably. "I do not. But neither do I find it amusing when my deeds are claimed by another."

"Come to bed, love," she said, pulling him gently. "Do not dwell on what is to come. Tomorrow will see to itself."

* * *

Frost still painted the fallen leaves as Yamarz led them through the forest north of Riften early the following morning. A decent night's sleep had clearly not softened his repulsive disposition, for he asked how their night's fuck went as soon as he saw them descend the stairs into the common room. A few patrons having an early breakfast were shocked and appalled by such an accusation, and one Breton man advised Yamarz to apologize to the lady. Barking with cruel laughter, the chieftain proceeded to regale the entire inn with a thoroughly vile accounting of what Lydia and Ashtu were likely doing in their room during the night.

Ashtu punched him in the mouth, Yamarz pushed Ashtu into the wall, then the two Orcs raised such a violent ruckus, Keerava was forced to call the town guards in to break it up. Lydia apologized profusely for the chieftain's behavior, and the innkeeper was sympathetic, but asked them to _please_ take him elsewhere.

The guards were more adamant, insisting that Yamarz and Ashtu remove their argument beyond the city walls. Now they were marching in angry silence, and Lydia suspected Ashtu might just be a little slow in leaping to the chieftain's aid once the battle began in earnest.

The entrance to the cave was wide and littered with the bones of large creatures, many clearly mammoth. Lydia had never fought a giant before the previous day, and did not relish a repeat. One blow from its club had wrought such profound damage to those Orsimer men, they were likely, hopefully, killed instantly. How they would protect this imbecile long enough to face the giants' leader was beyond her reckoning.

"You had better guard my back, whelp," the chieftain snarled at Ashtu when they paused to take a breath before entering. "Malacath is watching."

"It is not _my_ deeds that have his eye," Ashtu bit back. " _We_ will do our part, for the sake of your people."

Yamarz grunted and nodded, then led them into the cave.

A short downward-sloping tunnel opened out into a breathtakingly huge cavern. Lydia was stunned by the beauty of it, with a delightfully noisy waterfall at one end feeding a stream gushing through and cascading over multiple levels further down. Fissures in the ceiling opened to the sky, allowing quite a bit of light in. There were several different types of mushrooms and fungi growing in the shaded areas as expected, but also trees reached hungry limbs toward the light. Ashtu was likewise dumbstruck for several moments.

They were not able to indulge their awe for long. Yamarz was in a terrific hurry, and was already jumping down to the next level far ahead of them. Lydia and Ashtu ran across a stone bridge and leaped down to catch up.

Well beyond them was a small encampment where one giant could be seen cooking a meal. It barely acknowledged them, as if the intrusion of such pitifully small creatures was beneath notice. The chieftain made no overtures toward engaging it, and led them into a narrow tunnel through which a shallow stream ran.

The tunnel opened into a smaller grotto with a knee-deep pool taking up most of it. At one end a giant stood, apparently transfixed by the markings on the rock wall. Yamarz approached the creature warily.

Lydia would have been happy leaving the giant to its thoughts and continuing on. The alarmed look on Ashtu's face told her he felt the same. But the chieftain seemed to believe a warm-up was necessary, and struck the slow creature in the back of the knees with his axe.

The giant's pain-filled, furious roar echoed loudly in the close cavern. Turning, it swung its club in a broad arch more swiftly than expected, nearly catching the foolhardy chieftain's head. The familiar _twang_ of Ashtu's bow encouraged her, and Lydia darted in under the giant's guard to slash at its legs. A giant's hide was tougher than a human's, but Yamarz's axe still managed to slice open its stomach, though it was a shallow cut. Lydia sought to sever the spine, but the bones were tougher than the skin, and this was proving a difficult endeavor.

Suddenly, the giant was wreathed in a greenish glow and stiffened. Ever so slowly, it toppled into the pool face down. Grinning, Lydia spared a glance at her mate, and blessed his use of such poisons. She then hacked at the prone creature with renewed vigor. Yamarz capitalized on the momentary advantage and did likewise.

When the giant began to stir, the paralysis wearing off, Ashtu must have hit it again, for it went rigid and listed once more into the pool. The fighters finished it off.

Gasping for breath, Yamarz nodded grudging thanks at the younger Orsimer. Ashtu jerked his chin once in response, but his scowl was not lessened. Sneering, the chieftain led them up a short tunnel that opened onto a snowy grove surrounded by high rock walls.

This area was outside of the caves, and was currently being bombarded by a snow squall. It was difficult to see very far ahead, and Lydia was immediately on her guard. The path ahead turned sharply to the right, hemmed in by rocks and trees, and she did not like the look of it at all. Too many opportunities for ambush. And they did not know how many giants would be attending their leader, if any. This could get ugly.

There are uglier things than giants, Lydia came to realize.

"Now, city Orc," Yamarz growled, turning to Ashtu, "I have a proposal, since you are so concerned with the welfare of my people. I am weary; I have not slept well in weeks. The last giant sapped me of much-needed energy..."

"It was not a necessary fight, you fool," Ashtu snarled. "We could have avoided it altogether. They are slow-witted, and that one made no threatening move. Had we simply walked past it, we would likely have gotten nothing worse than a warning. _You_ were stupid enough to attack it."

"You think yourself superior?" Yamarz roared, thrusting his chest out and advancing on Ashtu. "You who disdains the old ways and lies with a Nord?"

"Do not bring Lydia into this," Ashtu warned, clenching his fists. "I do _not_ disdain the old ways, and I am _not_ a city-dweller. I grew up in a village in the Dragontail..."

"It is not a stronghold you come from," Yamarz barked, "so you are a _city Orc_. You have _no_ say in what we do."

"I am not trying to tell you how to run your affairs," Ashtu retorted. "Though clearly, advice is needed, or Malacath would not have _cursed_ your stronghold!"

"So it comes down to that, does it?" the chieftain smirked. "Because Malacath is displeased, because he is so _difficult_ to please, I am at fault, is that it? And I suppose you believe yourself more worthy, eh? Show your worthiness, then. My people, who have apparently earned your _pity_ , will be sorely abused by _our god_ if _we_ do not prevail. Or I should say, _you_."

"Me?" Ashtu said, startled.

"Fight this giant for me," Yamarz growled. "I will pay you handsomely for such a service. And _my people_ will also be in your debt."

Lydia exchanged a shocked look with Ashtu. Shaking himself, the Orsimer replied, "I will not. Fight by your side, yes. This I will do. But I will _not_ fulfill the task set for _you_ while you sit back and watch."

"Coward," Yamarz sneered. "Very well. I will fight this giant. _Alone_. You may stay here and fuck your 'wife.'"

Before either of them could respond to the chieftain's words, Yamarz spun on his heel and marched off into the whirling snow, disappearing quickly.

"I know I must go to his aid," Ashtu muttered half to himself. "He makes it... difficult."

"He is the most foul person I have ever known," Lydia agreed. "We must tell ourselves that it is his people who suffer because of him. Not just us." The Nord simply did not want to disappoint Atub. "Come. He will get himself killed and we will have an angry giant on our hands. Best to just face it now."

Nodding in reluctant agreement, Ashtu led the way through the twisting defile. Even above the howling wind, they could hear Yamarz's war cry and the giant leader's answering roar. Both were silenced quickly.

"Prepare yourself," Ashtu warned. Lydia nodded, getting a firmer grip on her sword.

The giant's leader was, perhaps, no larger than its fellows, but seemed more threatening regardless. The club that was to be Yamarz's prize in exchange for Malacath's favor was now smeared with his blood.

Swallowing hard, Lydia engaged the giant, ducking under the creature's initial attack and slicing open its thigh. Darting past, she hit the knee on her backswing. A part of her mind cheered to see blood spurt and tendons sever. It was not a thoroughly crippling blow, but it would slow the creature down even more. Meanwhile, Ashtu unloaded one arrow after another into the giant. The Orsimer kept on the move, staying out of reach and frequently dipping his arrows into one vial of poison after another. He did not normally carry many paralyzing toxins, but the one he employed now saved Lydia from a moment's confusion in the thickly falling snow as to the giant's next move: a blow that would have sent her flying in a bloody heap.

The battle lasted only a few minutes, though it seemed to take much longer. As soon as Ashtu claimed the giant's club, the silence was broken by the gruff, thunderous voice of Malacath.

_Yamarz was a fool, always trying to scheme his way out of responsibility. But you took care of him and the giant. Two problems solved at once. Now take Shagrol's Hammer back to Largashbur, and we'll see about whipping the rest of them into shape._

"I would restore your shrine before we leave," Ashtu called out, looking around as if hoping he would be blessed with the sight of his god as well as the voice.

_That would please me. Much you have done has pleased me, Ashtulagal of the Dragontail Mountains. We will speak again._

Humbled and beyond words, Ashtu closed his eyes and bowed his head in reverence. Lydia rested a hand on his shoulder.

"Let us go to the shrine, my love," she said quietly. Ashtu nodded and led the way, anxious to see it for himself.

The path opened onto a circular grove, in the center of which was a small hill. On this hill stood a giant likeness of a mighty Orsimer posed in a battle stance, ready to attack with an overhand swing of a mighty sword. Blood was splattered all over the chest and head. The raised dais was likewise stained. Before the shrine lay the beaten corpse of an Orsimer man.

The dead Orsimer on the hill was not the only one, however. There were several twisted and mutilated Orc bodies, male and female, littering the grounds. A great cooking fire roared at the foot of the hill, and an unrecognizable corpse was spitted and roasting over the flames. Not far from the gruesome sight lay the crushed body of Yamarz.

"They must have been here making offerings," Ashtu said quietly, his voice thick and rough with emotion.

"We will see to them first," Lydia replied firmly. "Then the chieftain. Fool that he was."

He nodded. "Foolish, but Orsimer. Still a child of Malacath. He should be treated with respect."

"I am not sure I agree," Lydia sighed. "He did little to deserve such honor. I would not face Atub with anything but the truth, and for _her_ sake, I will be respectful. Not for _his_."


	17. Answering a Different Call

Dread filled Ashtu's heart as he and Lydia made their way back to Largashbur. He found no solace in her arms when they stayed the night at _The Bee and Barb_ , either. Staring at the ceiling with her curled next to his body, he tried to recall the insults, the abuse, the vile words, _anything_ to convince him that Largashbur deserved to be rid of their chieftain.

It was no use. He failed them, leaving them leaderless when dragons were plaguing the Rift. And he a 'city Orc,' with no status, no credibility... even less now.

"You are restless," Lydia murmured sleepily. "Even in death, that poor excuse for an Orsimer plagues you."

"I should have..."

"Listen to me," she said sternly. Rising up on her elbow, she looked into his face. "Your memory is failing if you cannot recall Malacath's own words. He said you pleased him. It was _his_ will that Yamarz fall. Though I often have my doubts of what is truly going through the minds of the Divines, I do not believe he would leave those people bereft."

Ashtu sighed and reached up to wrap a tendril of her hair around his finger. "He is not one of the Divines, Lydia. He is Malacath, a Daedric Prince. If the people of Largashbur cannot survive, they will be abandoned. It is his way."

"Why take Yamarz from them _now_?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "It would seem to me a poison was purged. Perhaps they will be given a second chance."

"Perhaps," he allowed. "I hope that is so. If the giants did not slay all, there are a few left who might replace him."

"Sleep while you can," she murmured, snuggling closer. "You cannot hurry the dawn by fretting about it."

Though her words calmed his thoughts somewhat, Ashtu would not find sleep for some time.

* * *

The sun was high overhead when Ashtu and Lydia passed through the front gates of Largashbur the following day. Atub awaited them, holding her body rigidly. It seemed she had been informed of their approach by the watchers on the walls.

"You return," she said stiffly, her voice devoid of emotion.

Ashtu swallowed hard as he slowly released the heavy club from the makeshift straps around his torso. "Yamarz... fell. We avenged him. This is the weapon demanded by Malacath." He held the unwieldy trophy before him.

"Did you see to his...," the wise woman began, then faltered.

"With all honors," Ashtu assured her. "We also cleansed the shrine. I hope... we did well enough to suit you. We did not have much on hand..."

"That is no matter," Atub replied. "I am sure your efforts were... sufficient."

"I... apologize for... We could not...," the Orsimer stammered, then the air became heavy, and a voice thundered through the stronghold.

 _Yamarz was a coward and a weakling. His deceitful ways have cost you all greatly_.

All the men and women of Largashbur converged on the small group, casting their eyes about in wonder. Atub's face relaxed in reverence, a slight smile on her lips. Ashtu sighed and bowed his head.

_You'll have to prove yourselves, but I'm willing to give you a chance. Gularzob's in charge now. Let us hope he is a better chief._

One of the men, clearly Gularzob, started with shock. "Me?" he blurted.

_Ashtulagal, put Shagrol's Hammer on the shrine. You're the only one who has proven worthy in all of this._

Nervously, Ashtu hefted the giant weapon and approached the shrine in the center of the stronghold. Glancing over his shoulder, he beckoned Lydia to aid him. Together, they placed the hammer on the stone slab.

_Now, Ashtulagal of the Dragontail Mountains, we will speak of your repudiation._

Ashtu froze and began to tremble. Lydia moved closer and clasped his hand.

_You have seen the worst of our folk, the dishonored thieves and weak-willed leaders. Yet you hold to the Code with honor and courage. Why, then, do you shrink from the gift you possess?_

"It... it... is... it is a curse," Ashtu muttered. He had hoped to keep such a thing secret. Now he felt the eyes of the other Orsimer on him, felt their confusion.

_By any measure, yes, such a thing given by a pathetic Aedra would be considered a curse. But in this I must grudgingly amend my opinions. As must you._

"Yes, Malacath," the Orsimer said automatically, as if he were being scolded by his own father.

_Heed my words, Ashtulagal. You have been chosen, and you must serve. Show the pathetic folk of Talos that not all Orsimer are unworthy of respect._

"I will try to be worthy of the _honor_ ," Ashtu growled, all but spitting the last word.

_If any other Orsimer spoke in such a manner, I would know it was a lie in hopes of appeasing me. I have no doubt_ _**you** _ _will do what is necessary._

Ashtu wasn't sure he liked what his god was implying. "If it would appease you, I would do more."

_Do not attempt to deceive me with empty promises. Recall what became of one who tried._

"Forgive me, Malacath," Ashtu replied hastily, cringing under the rebuke. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and grimaced slightly. "For the Orsimer people, and for your glory, Malacath, I will... do... my duty."

_That you will. I will witness your deeds, Ashtulagal. Do not disappoint me._

Steeling himself, Ashtu forced himself to say, "I... have... taken a Nord wife, Malacath. Does this displease you?"

The air rippled with the gruff laughter of Malacath.

_Lydia of Whiterun is a worthy match, Ashtulagal. You chose well. If you have succeeded in making_ _**this** _ _Nord see the worth and might of the Orsimer people, I have little doubt you will show_ _**all** _ _the lesser races the same._

As the air lightened, everyone seemed to sag a little, as if tension were released with the Daedra's departure.

"Ashtulagal," Atub said, turning to the Orsimer. "What... gift do you possess?"

He opened his eyes and took another deep breath. Glancing at Lydia, who smiled encouragingly beside him, he replied, "I... am Dragonborn. I go to the Greybeards to learn how to... use this power to fight the dragons that have come to Skyrim."

"I have heard of this legend," Atub whispered in awe. "It is said the Divine Talos was once a mortal man, also a Dragonborn. You carry within you... such... Ashtulagal, have you denied this gift?"

"I do not seek fame," he growled, bowing his head. "I would fight dragons on my own terms, if needs be. I do not _need_ tainted blood to do it."

"Tis no taint," Atub said, a hint of admonishment in her voice. "Malacath himself has bid you use this power for his glory. You would shame him... and _us_... if you denied it."

"I have already promised him I will... use it," Ashtu spat. "You do not know what it is like..."

"Whatever you feel about this gift is of no matter," the wise woman interrupted angrily. "There is little enough respect for our people here, though we have lived longer upon the land than any Nord. Your presence in Skyrim, so far from your home, was not without purpose." Her expression softened slightly, and she approached the Orsimer man. Laying a hand on his shoulder, she said, "If you require the strength of your people to firm your resolve, you shall have it."

"I do," he replied. "Forgive me, Atub. All of you, please... I... I do not want to be... thought superior to my people. I do not wish for power or glory beyond what I may acquire in my own way."

"Ashtulagal, _this_ is now your way," Atub pointed out. "Use this power for the glory of Malacath and the Orsimer people, as you were bid. It is a sacred duty."

"I do not want the duty I have been given, either," Gularzob spoke up. "But I must serve. Someone must always serve. Show the people of this land that we are not animals. Remind _us_ that an Orsimer with power should not let it languish until his folk are weakened."

Reminded of Yamarz, and the ugliness that man showed to the folk in Riften, Ashtu straightened. Remembering the Orc bandits he and Lydia had faced, he nodded. "I will serve. We are not like Yamarz, nor are we cutthroats and thieves. We are _Orsimer_. And it is... my duty to show all what we are made of."

The men of the stronghold threw back their heads and roared their approval.

* * *

Lying together in the chieftain's bed that night, Ashtu and Lydia held each other, listening to the sounds of the Largashbur Orcs bedding down in the sleeping room at the other end of the longhouse.

"How do you feel, my love?" Lydia asked quietly.

"I will do what I must," he replied.

"You will do more than that," she said. "You never do 'just enough.' It is not your way."

He hesitated for a moment, then sighed. "I know."

"I will be at your side," she pointed out.

Ashtu chuckled. "Making sure I do my duty?"

"That will not be necessary," she laughed. "I believe you have embraced it now. You need no urging from me."

"I wanted to see my da," he said sadly. "That will have to wait."

"Yes," she agreed.

"After the Greybeards, we should still go to Markarth," Ashtu growled. "I would have this Phane's head, if that is what is required to call off the Brotherhood."

"And we will. Though I think their best efforts are no match for you, love," she teased.

Grunting with embarassed amusement, he squeezed her closer. "I would not have you in danger on my account. Perhaps I may learn to Shout a man asunder, as Ulfric is rumored to have done."

"Then nothing they throw at us will matter," Lydia replied.

* * *

The dawn's light saw Ashtu and Lydia departing from Largashbur with promises to return still fresh on their lips. To their relief, and undoubtedly those of the Orsimer they'd left, no giants could be seen upon the road in any direction. The curse was lifted.

A feeling of disquiet came over Ashtu as they resumed their journey north toward Ivarstead. He'd spent so much time trying to avoid that place, and now he was anxious to get there. Get it over with. Face his fate. Make his people proud.

Please his god.

Had he changed so much?

"Your thoughts are far away," Lydia said softly at his side. "Does your decision trouble you?"

"I think it will sometimes," he acknowledged. "One moment I am certain of what I must do. Resigned to it. The next moment..." Sighing, he shook his head. "I fear I will fail."

"I am confident you will not," she said bracingly. "You are a strong man, Ashtu. A proud man, and stubborn. You will not _let_ yourself fail."

Rolling his eyes, he smirked ironically. "You did not think so when you first saw me."

"No, I suppose I didn't," she replied with a slightly embarrassed smile. "I saw through my father's eyes then."

He nodded. "Are you so certain I _won't_ fail?" he pressed.

"Perhaps you will make mistakes," Lydia said. "All who walk make mistakes. You would be in good company. But I trust that you will not give up. You will try again. Only if you abandon us to our fate will you fail."

Again, he nodded. It both strengthened and frightened him that she believed so strongly in his abilities.

As if she knew the source of his discomfort, Lydia reached out and took hold of his hand. "It is not your skills or your powers that have earned my trust. It is your heart. You are not a man who stands idly by while those in need suffer. You have the divine-granted power to save thousands of lives. I trust you to use it for that purpose." Leaning over to plant a soft kiss on his cheek, she grinned. "You did not earn my trust, or my love, through strength of arms, but with the strength of your heart."

"Many things about you won my love," Ashtu remarked.

"You have never told me what you thought of _me_ when we first met. I do not recall you were as burdened with prejudice as I was."

Biting the inside of his mouth to hide a grin, he kept his eyes on the road ahead as he spoke. "I desired you from the first. You are darker featured than most Nords. You reminded me of that Breton woman when I was a boy."

"Did I?" she said, arching her eyebrows. Then she frowned with sympathy. "How much more painful it must have been that I disdained you."

"It was," he sighed. "Nothing I wasn't used to, but..." Ashtu stiffened and stopped in his tracks. Once more, the short hairs raised on the back of his neck. A sense of dread washed over him. " _Dragon_ ," he hissed, and his eyes rose to scan the sky.

Soon the sounds of its wings could be heard as the great beast circled above, its lazy glide taking it lower with each round. Pulling his bow free, Ashtu hastily strung it and nocked an arrow. Lydia unsheathed her sword and followed as he left the road and headed for cover.

"Come down here, coward," Ashtu growled under his breath, yellow eyes blazing. The dragon had obviously marked their position, but seemed content to toy with them first.

"You want it down?" Lydia asked. At his nod, she sheathed her sword and closed her eyes to concentrate. She could count on her fingers the number of times she'd called forth fire; this would have to be a longer ranged ball of flame than she'd ever conjured. Ashtu couldn't hit the dragon at this distance, but if _she_ could, it might be annoyed enough to descend within his range.

Allowing the power behind the fist-sized flaming globe to build to the edge of her control, she thrust her hands up, releasing the energy with a physical and mental push. The sphere shot toward the dragon unerringly, following its flight, and striking the outstretched wing with an explosion of heat that could be heard on the ground. Roaring with fury, the dragon stopped itself short and hovered for an instant, then dove.

As soon as he was able, Ashtu loosed an arrow into the dragon's underside as it swooped low over their heads. Two more found their marks before the beast's arc took it out of range again. But now they had its full attention.

Ashtu's supply of poisons was severely depleted since the attack on the giants' lair. What he had left would not immobilize the beast, only weaken it an insignificant amount. He used all of them as he darted back and forth from one tree to another. Infuriated by its prey's constant harrassment and evasion, the dragon unleashed the full power of its breath upon the trees, setting swaths of forest on fire in its wrath. Ashtu and Lydia were running out of places to hide.

This time, however, Ashtu steeled himself. When the dragon swooped low and soared toward him, the Orsimer took a deep breath and Shouted.

" _Fo!_ "

The blast of cold hit the dragon full in the face on its descent, freezing its eyes shut and momentarily blinding it. Startled and robbed of sight, it forgot how close it was to the ground, and plowed face-first into the dirt. Ashtu threw himself bodily out of the way.

Once downed, the dragon was right where Lydia wanted it. Attacking its singed wing, she tore through the membranes with her sword and hacked at the struggling limb. Ashtu also abandoned his bow and attacked the dragon's other side with sword and axe.

The freezing effect of Ashtu's _thu'um_ lingered, keeping the dragon's eyes glued shut. Clumsy and awkward with one wing too damaged for flying, the dragon lurched to its feet and snapped at the figures on either side. When it got close to one, another _thu'um_ slammed into its head, rattling its skull.

" _Fus!_ "

The blades continued slashing as the dragon became more disoriented. On one side was a sword cutting deep, stabbling into its body. On the other, its prey, its _kin_ at some level, one who walked on two legs yet used the Voice. Shrieking in dismay, the dragon made one last attempt to rise into the air, but another blast of cold struck its uninjured wing, and it could not flex the muscles nor lift itself from the ground.

Mere minutes later, the great beast sank to the ground in defeat.

Ashtu quivered with uncertainty, triumph, dread, exhilaration... Turning desperate eyes to Lydia, he stood rigid as she approached.

"I am here," she said calmly, extending her hands palm out in a placating gesture. "Your people are here. Malacath is here. Draw strength from us."

Swallowing, he closed his eyes as the dragon's body burst into flames and the first tendrils of its soul reached hungrily for him.

"Do not fight it," Lydia said gently, and he felt her hands take his. "Let it come to you." He nodded, but still winced when he felt the cold fingers whispering over his flesh, delving into his bones, invading, probing, possessing...

Then it was over. He gasped for breath and slowly opened his eyes. Lydia squeezed his hands reassuringly. "How do you feel?"

Ashtu wasn't sure how to respond. "I... feel... drained. And... full. It is hard to explain."

"Was it... it did not seem as... difficult for you this time."

He shook his head. "It wasn't. Perhaps it will get easier."

She smiled at him. "I think it will. And the Shouts?"

"Also easier," he acknowledged. "They have their... uses."

"They are simply another weapon," she said. "Another tool you may use at need."

"I do not know if I will ever accept this...," he muttered, and Lydia laid a warm palm against his cheek.

"You already have," she said.


	18. Epilogue: Phane's Folly

"Poor, stupid bastard," Brunulf tsked, shaking his head. Lifting a bowl from the table in front of Phane's corpse, he sniffed it tentatively, and blanched. "Should've screened his cook more carefully."

The great hall of Broken Tower redoubt was strewn with bodies beginning to rot. Rats crawled all over them, and several had been more than half eaten. Yet he could still see that they had died in considerable agony.

"Thalmor?" his Khajiiti partner asked. She kept licking the back of her hand and rubbing it across her whiskers, as if she couldn't get the stench out of them. The redoubt had been sealed shut when they arrived; as soon as the door opened, they were hit in the face with the putrid odor of decay and death.

"No, too... messy," Brunulf replied, setting the bowl down exactly as he'd found it. "This smells like vengeance... so to speak."

"Hmph," Khisaba huffed doubtfully. "Does the Briarheart have his heart? Pretty penny for those."

Leaning over the dead man, Brunulf carefully examined the wound in the center of Phane's chest. Unsheathing his dagger, he poked a rat in the rear end, persuading it to find its meal elsewhere. Once the obstruction was removed, he was able to see better.

"Looks to have been cut out," he observed. "The laces are severed, not chewed."

"Seems... extreme for robbery," the cat said wryly.

"Indeed." Straightening, he stepped down from the high table and strolled around, looking at the men and women, imagining their final moments. _Whatever did you lot do, you sons of whores?_ he wondered.

"Perhaps the contract is rendered... invalid?" Khisaba said tentatively. "The Night Mother no longer speaks. Does she hear?"

"Questionable," Brunulf said thoughtfully. "This contract was negotiated by Astrid. I've no doubt she would have something to say about it. What that might be..." He shrugged.

"You will of course provide your opinion." The Khajiit chuckled softly and headed for the door. There was nothing more to be done here, and she wished to purge her nostrils of this place.

"Naturally," Brunulf replied with a grin. "When have you known me to hold my tongue, hmm?"

Khisaba licked her sharp incisors and purred. "You know best when to use it, and how."

"Flattery will just get you more of the same, wench," he teased, following her out the door. He playfully tugged her long, slender tail near the base, making her squirm with pleasure. "I think I will gently suggest that Astrid tear up the contract. After all, the Dragonborn, you know. If he'd wanted to truly make a statement of his allegiance in the coming storm, he should have named Ulfric Stormcloak. Some people can't see past their own noses."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phane, as mentioned in prior chapters, is dealt with in "Lily's Reach."
> 
> This concludes "Duty Calls." I'm so glad everyone enjoyed it! Ashtu and Lydia may make the occasional appearance in "Lily's Reach." We'll see. :)


End file.
